


The Good Life

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: Cherry Tree Verse [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism Spectrum, Awkward First Times, Brain Damage, Depression, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing in the Rain, Meeting the Parents, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Suicide Attempt, Recovery, Seizures, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Violence, countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-08-23 19:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Now that they are finally together, Fitz and Jemma are eager to collect some happy memories together while still struggling with their personal demons. When Jemma's parents invite them to their cottage in Ashburton, Jemma sees a chance to get closer to Fitz and explore their relationship further in the peaceful silence of the countryside. - But the past isn't sleeping.Sequel to "Under The Cherry Tree". A story about facing fears and getting closer.





	1. Jemma

**Author's Note:**

> Told you there would be a sequel ;) 
> 
> Here is a short summary of what happened in ["Under The Cherry Tree"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466984/chapters/43752301)  
*SPOILERS*  
\- Jemma does an internship in a psych ward. In her breaks, she sees a young man always sitting on the same bench under a cherry tree.  
\- When Jemma sees the young man having a panic attack, she manages to calm him down and meets Mack, a nurse, who tells her that the man is called Fitz and has a traumatic past.  
\- Fitz was abused by his father, after his mother died. He was taken away from Alistair, when he broke Fitz's arm and a teacher got suspicious. Fitz was given into foster care and was raised by Phil Coulson, who is a very good father.  
\- When he was going to university, Fitz had a car accident which left him with brain damage. When he woke up from a coma, Fitz couldn't talk or move properly. He got depressed and eventually tried to kill himself. However, he was saved and admitted to the psych ward. He stopped talking at all and didn't make any progress.  
\- Jemma starts to talk to Fitz regularly and it seems to help him. But she has a car accident herself and suddenly is a patient. Fitz starts to talk to her through written words at first and they help each other with their issues.  
They slowly fall in love but neither of them really wants to admit it.  
\- Fitz slowly gets better and is able to leave the hospital, living with Coulson instead for a while. When he visits Jemma, who he allowed to live in his old flat after she left the hospital, because she couldn't stand to live with her obnoxious study colleague Milton anymore, they have a good time and a kiss happens.  
\- After some confusion and serious talking, they confess their love to each other and decide to live together.

  
The little waiting room is crowded.

Jemma leans back against the cool firm back of the chair with a sigh. She takes a look around, smiling at an elderly woman who is knitting something that looks like a fuzzy yellow scarf. She smiles back and the wrinkles around her eyes deepen. Most of the waiting patients are much older than her, Jemma realizes. When she lets her gaze wander around further, she starts to think that this waiting room is one of the nicer ones she has seen in her life so far.

A picture of a beach is sprawled on each light yellow painted wall. Beautiful sceneries, rolling waves, white beaches and palm trees bending under the weight of coconuts. Without doubt the pictures are supposed to create a calm atmosphere, just like the big aquarium standing in one corner. Little clownfish hunt each other through a miniature ship wreck and pink swaying anemones. Bigger fish with colourful spots and stripes move through the water majestically. A few snails are sticking on the glass, and Jemma has to smile, when she remembers how Fitz reacted when she suggested eating snails on his birthday. She was just joking around, she wouldn’t do it. Not even for money. But it was amusing to see Fitz’s face getting a little green at the thought alone.

In front of Jemma is a little black wooden coffee table, holding health and wildlife magazines.

There’s a little play corner for young children too. A boy about four years old is shoving around some toy cars, glancing at his mother now and then, who is reading a newspaper, but doesn’t seem really focused. A worried frown paints deep wrinkles on her forehead. Jemma can only imagine what's going on inside her head.

From the receptionist outside comes a steady clicking noise. From time to time a phone rings or someone enters the office, murmuring a “Hello,” soon stepping inside the waiting room, greeting quietly, taking a seat. The waiting people are either gazing into space, apparently in their own private worlds like the newspaper reading woman - their thoughts probably painting worrisome scenarios about severe illnesses, which will be either be denied by the doctor later, or confirmed - or they are looking at their phones.

Anxiety, boredom, tension.

It’s the typical atmosphere of a doctor’s office. No one really wants to be here. Everyone’s relieved when they can leave. Despite the waiting room is nice to look at, it’s not a place to linger voluntarily.

Eventually Jemma grabs a magazine about whales and starts to read, discovering ten mistakes on the first two pages. However, she can’t really concentrate on the information. Her thoughts always wander off to Fitz, hoping he’s alright.

It’s his semi-annual check-up today.

The first one, Jemma can accompany him to. She hopes her presence helps. He’s been away for almost half an hour now, going through whatever they need to do, to check his brain injury. She knows Fitz hates this. He told her they do all kind of tests. Probing his bad hand, sticking electrodes to his forehead, putting him inside a noisy, narrow MRI scanner. Jemma knows Fitz has been bracing himself for this for days. He hates to be touched by strangers. He hates narrow spaces. And most of all, he hates to be reminded of his injury. Her stomach aches in sympathy when she remembers how upset he has been yesterday. It has gotten worse the closer the appointment came.

To be reminded of the brain damage brings back all the memories. Of waking up after being in a coma for so long. Of not being able to speak, to form words. “The brain cells react first”, he told her, after a nightmare that woke Jemma up as well. “They die. Three minutes. Damage is permanent. I … I read books about it. When I was able to read again. When the words didn’t jump around in front of my eyes anymore.” He has been sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, looking small in his pyjamas and with his ruffled curls. “It won’t go away,” he told her matter of factly. There was a hint of worry in his eyes. As if he still didn’t believe she would want to be with him. She hugged him then, sharing her warmth.

At least the effects of Fitz's injury are barely noticeable these days. He only stutters when he’s very nervous or scared. It’s the same with the tremor in his hand. When he studies for too long, until late in the night, he starts twitching, blinking rapidly and rubbing his head, and Jemma convinces him to stop and go to sleep, stroking his back.

He had a seizure once though, not that long ago. He had been brushing his teeth in the bathroom, smiling at Jemma when she walked past towards the bathroom. She smiled back, thinking how cute he looked, already in his pyjamas, his curls ruffled and a little spot of white toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. But right when she was about to step into their bedroom, a noise stopped her. The brush cluttered to the floor. A loud thud followed and she turned on the spot, hurrying back into the bathroom, where Fitz was laying on the floor, convulsing. After the first moment of breathless frozen shock, Jemma remembered what to and she dropped on her knees beside him, made sure he couldn’t hit his head anywhere and tried to count the seconds, her eyes welling up because she hated to see him like this.

His eyes were half-closed. She could see the white in them. His whole body looked tense. It looked painful. She bit the tears back and continued counting, laying one of her hands on his arm carefully. Maybe, somewhere in his mind, he would notice she’s there. Maybe. She didn’t know that much about seizures.

When the convulsing finally stopped, after what seemed like an eternity, Fitz’s body went slack and his breath came in quick wet gasps. Jemma stroked his shoulder and his eyes fluttered open, looking hazy. They stared straight ahead for a moment, before flicking through the room and up to her face, focusing. He opened his mouth, maybe to say her name, but all that came out was a breathy moan.

“Hey. You’re alright,” Jemma hushed, reaching for a cloth to lay it under his head, stroking the sweaty curls out of his face. “I’m here.”

Fitz stared up at her, finally able to form words. “What … Jemma?”

“You had a seizure, Fitz,” she told him softly.

His eyes widened. He looked scared. “Uh. What. That … that shouldn’t, uh, happen. I … Bloody hell,” he slurred, grimacing. “Sorry …,” he added, his eyes slipping shut again.

That last word somehow pierced her heart. She couldn’t believe he was apologizing because he just had a seizure and was convulsing on the floor, completely helpless. He _apologized_. Once more, she remembered what he has been going through in his life and her stomach clenched painfully.

Afterwards, Fitz slept for a few hours, obviously being dead exhausted.

If she hadn’t been home, Jemma realized, while wiping away the little bit of toothpaste sticking to the floor in the bathroom, he would have been alone afterwards. Alone and confused. The thought was unbearable.

Thankfully, it had only been a short seizure and the doctor in the hospital they went to the next day said, it was probably caused by stress and maybe by an irregularity in Fitz’s combination of meds. But Jemma knows she will never forget that moment. Whenever she’s in the bathroom now, she can see him laying on the floor. She doesn’t tell him though. Because she knows it would make him anxious.

He’s already anxious about enough things. About her seeing the scars on his back or the long one on his wrist for example. He always wears shirts with long sleeves. To cover it, she knows. Which hurts her a bit. She doesn’t press him to not worry about it. But when it’s dark and they reach for each other almost shyly, just cuddling and enjoying each other’s presence, she sometimes slips a hand beneath his shirt and runs her fingers over his scars with all the gentleness she can muster. He lets her, sighing softly. She leads his hand then, to touch her own scars.

Because, yes.

They’re both bruised, wearing scars on the inside and the outside.

There’s a long silver line going up her leg, where she had been operated on after her accident. She still feels like that leg is weaker than the other. Sometimes, she dreams of bright lights, approaching her in a horrible speed while she’s frozen in place, her heart thundering in her chest, when she wakes up.

Jemma is always looking to her left and right at least six times now, before she crosses a street. She can’t ride her bike on the street, because being near to the cars is making her anxious.

It gets better. But only in slow steps. At least, she doesn’t go to her limits all the time anymore. She tries to allow herself to not having to be the best. Which is liberating.

Slow steps.

For Fitz it’s the same. He's still in the outpatient program, going to therapy regularly. He’s still battling his demons, but he’s a lot healthier than he used to be, when they met. He gained some weight and even started to do some light workout on three days a week. They are doing walks through the park together and sometimes Fitz starts hunting her playfully. Jemma runs away then, but always lets him catch her, laughing freely and happily. Happy moments. They can’t collect enough of them, she thinks.

There are a lot more happy moments now that they are living together.

They had a lot of luck with their little flat. They found it quickly and got it immediately. The landlady was a fierce but cheerful small elderly woman, who were followed by a reddish fluffy cat. The cat jumped on Jemma’s shoulder the moment she stepped into the flat and rubbed his head against her cheek, purring loudly. The landlady, introducing herself as Martha, had laughed, telling her “Cheshire doesn’t do this often. Only with people he thinks are pure at heart.”

When Fitz stroked Cheshire’s back, the cat purred even louder and Martha handed Jemma the keys. She shrugged and said, “The landlord has chosen,” grinning crookedly and revealing some teeth gaps that made her seem even more charming.

The flat is perfect. There’s no big street in front of the house, so no car noises all day. There’s a little garden instead, which everyone in the house can use. The garden is a bit wild, weeds growing everywhere, mingling with flowers. But there’s also an old tall plum tree, bending towards the fence. And Jemma’s pretty sure she discovered wild strawberry plants.

It took a while to get their furniture into the flat. Coulson helped them a lot. And once they were finished, it really was cozy. She still had problems to find places for all her books, especially because Fitz had a lot of them too, but then he told her to just make heaps on the floor and somehow, that looked charming.

On the first evening, they flopped on the couch, looking at each other, smiling.

“So, that’s it,” Fitz said quietly.

“Yes,” Jemma breathed. Her heart beat quickly in excited happy anticipation.

“You’re still sure about, uh, this? Us?” Fitz asked her without looking at her, picking at a loose thread of the couch. He sounded shy.

Jemma reached out to touch his shoulder and Fitz perked up, their eyes meeting halfway. “I’ve never been surer about something,” Jemma told him firmly. Then she moved closer to him to kiss him. He made a happy little noise in the back of his throat and kissed her back.

Someone starts coughing. It's echoing loudly in the waiting room.

Jemma sighs and crosses her legs. She discovered a few more mistakes in an article about ocean facts.

She glances at the clock on the wall. Almost an hour has passed by now.

The clouds disappeared outside, making a lot of room for the sun. It beams inside the waiting room which heats up quickly. Jemma is sitting with her back to a window and feels a drop of sweat trickling down her spine.

Finally, the door of the waiting room opens, and Fitz walks in. He looks pale and stressed but also relieved, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and looking around nervously, until he catches sight of Jemma and a smile quickly spreads on his face. “Hey,” he says, dropping on the chair beside her with a groan. “I have to wait for the records of the MRI. Then I’m finished.”

Jemma smiles at him. “Alright. How about we get some ice cream after this?”

Fitz’s face lits up. “Yeah. I’d like that.” He hesitates, then leans over to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for waiting. You, uh, didn’t get too bored, did you?” He asks nervously.

Jemma shakes her head. “No.” She raises the whale magazine and raises her eyebrows. “Discovered some mistakes.”

Fitz chuckles. “Course you did.” He looks at her with that combination of love and awe in his eyes, that sparkle ocean-blue in the sunlight falling into the room, and she feels her heart swell in her chest. She reaches out to take his hand and strokes his skin with her thumb. She can feel him relax under her touch.

They don’t have to wait too long for the records. When they’re out of the office, Jemma can literally feel the rest of tension leaving Fitz’s body and soul. He takes her hand and grips it firmly, straightening up and blinking into the sun. He looks good, she thinks and her heart jumps.

They get their ice cream and stroll home, arms locked.

* * *

Things are always volatile. That’s something Jemma has learned over the last few months.

It’s just how life rolls.

At one moment, you’re on the top of the mountain of emotions, sure nothing can kick you off your peak – but then comes a sly strong breeze, making you tumble down, down, down … Until you’re back on the ground, battered and bruised.

Still. Even when you kind of expect the fall, you’re still surprised when it actually happens.

  
Summer is almost over and suddenly the end of the semester can’t be there quick enough.

Jemma is angry. Not only did she meet Milton, who acted like they are still more than acquaintances, who asked her if she wants to come to his next party, who reacted in his usual annoying kind of childish confusion, when she told him to leave her alone. “I see,” he said, raising his chin. “I come back when you’re not that … moody anymore.”

Moody. Moody! That changed her pooling irritation into rage. Sure. When a woman wants to be left alone, she’s moody. Sure it doesn’t have to do with the fact that he has been the worst idiot on this planet, even telling her it could be worse when she was laying in a bloody hospital bed, unable to move and terrified. She turned on the spot and walked away quickly.

The day was practically destroyed already, when the next bad thing happened. 

She applied for a side job at university. An interesting one, one that even would involve being in a lab. She mostly did it because they need the money. Fitz offered to work, but she told him to not overdo it. He has just started to go to university again, she doesn't want him to get too stressed and spiral back into depression. And she was sure she could get the job. But despite her having the better marks, the professor finally chose a young guy who Jemma knows is horribly lazy and writes average marks at best. She doesn't want to at first, but the more she thinks about it, the more she feels like she didn’t get the job because she’s a _woman_. She also feels like she’s going to have such experiences her whole life. And it frustrates her to no end. She can do nothing about it. If she’s going to accuse the professor of being misogynistic, he will deny it, and everyone’s going to believe him, because he is a man with a reputation. But she … she will probably get worse marks and who knows if he isn’t going to take care she isn’t chosen for any other job.

When she is finally back at home, she is so angry; she wants to punch something. In the end, she punches her pillow and feels ridiculous. Childish. The anger doesn’t really go away and she starts crying. That’s how Fitz finds her. He drops his bag and hurries to her, his face wearing a worried expression. “Jemma? What’s wrong?”

She tells him and he gets angry too. “What a bloody arsehole,” he snarls and Jemma feels better because when Fitz is angry he scrunches up his nose and his brows furrow and it looks too cute. She chuckles, wiping her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s stupid,” she says quietly. “Maybe I’m overthinking this and …”

“Or you’re not and he is indeed just a bloody arsehole. You should go complain, Jems.”

“And then what? He will tell me it’s because of another reason,” she scoffs.

Fitz inhales deeply. “Jemma, you are the smartest, most wonderful, most diligent person I know. He should have given you that job. He’s missing out. Yeah, when you think about it that way, he shot himself in the foot. Because he chose a bloody dumb idiot instead of _you_.”

Jemma smiles at him. “Thank you, Fitz. I will find something else. Something better. I could ask Doctor Weaver. She’s doing something with epidemic diseases, that's exactly what I’m interested in the most.” She grabs a tissue and blows her nose. Well. It doesn’t really change anything, to be sad and mull over this. Some people in your life will always be a nuisance or hold you back. One should leave them behind and move on.

She decides to write Doctor Weaver a mail sometime.

* * *

When they’re in bed later, Fitz starts kissing her. Like most times, he does it carefully first, the touch of his lips featherlight. He gets bolder when she kisses him back and puts her hand on the back of his head to pull him closer. He makes a noise inside her mouth and she can feel his breath quickening, tickling her skin.

They don’t stop and Jemma feels arousal pooling in her belly, warm and tingling. She wants him. She knows it. But she's holding back like she always does.

They haven’t slept with each other yet.

There hasn’t been much more than a bit careful, nervous fumbling. It hasn’t been bad. But she’s at the point where she could use a bit more.

Since they’re both virgins, Jemma thought they could do everything slow. She doesn’t feel like they have to have sex immediately. She feels nervous about it anyway. Like … what if Fitz sees her naked and there’s something he doesn’t like? She’s overall quite satisfied with her body. Although in the past, she felt like she has to much or to less in the wrong places. And oh, this is getting ridiculous.

Is Fitz thinking the same? Well. Maybe he’s not thinking about Jemma’s reaction towards seeing him naked, but she can imagine he’s nervous about doing something wrong. That’s … Yes. That’s just Fitz. She sometimes thinks he’s going to start, when his hand slips a bit lower, fingers stroking the side of her neck, but he stops most of the times, gulping.

Jemma knows Fitz reacts different to sensations. Smells, tastes, touches … It’s a lot for him. More than it’s for her. She doesn’t want to overwhelm him. At the same time, she thinks it would be nice to do a bit more. To explore each other more. To discover what Fitz likes, what makes him sigh and moan and flush.

Maybe, they should just talk about it someday. Yes. Talk about sex. It’s … It’s the most normal thing in the world, right? Yes. But … Why is it making her feel like riding a rollercoaster then?!

But there’s no need to hurry. They have time, she tells herself, still running her fingers through Fitz’s curls the way he likes it. They have time.

And then they haven’t.

Not really.

  
Right after they had their last day of the semester, Fitz spirals into a terrible week.

He wakes up from a horrible nightmare in the middle of the night, screaming. Jemma startles awake, immediately reaching for him. But Fitz flinches back and whimpers. He almost falls out of bed and makes a weak attempt at getting up, tangled in the blanket. He makes terrified noises and Jemma hastily reaches for the light on her nightstand, her heart thundering. “Fitz,” she says, still almost asleep. “Fitz … What’s wrong. Talk to me.”

He doesn’t talk. Instead, he finally manages to get out of bed and stumbles out of the room, breathing heavily. She blinks after him, and looks at his side of the bed. It’s soaked in sweat. She swallows and gets up slowly, padding to the bathroom on bare feet.

Fitz is sitting in the shower, naked and shivering, hugging himself. The water is running down on him in a hot cascade, steam slowly filling the cabinet.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jemma undresses and joins him, hugging him close. He allows it, but when she asks him, if he wants to talk about it, he shakes his head. She feels him trembling under her touch and her stomach aches in sympathy. What did he see? Was it his father again? Dragging him down the stairs into the cellar, to lock him there in the darkness? Or to beat him? Jemma feels the repulsion pulsing inside her with a sudden violent urge. God. She hates this man without even knowing him.

Fitz is able to fall back asleep after the shower.

The next morning, however, he doesn’t get out of bed. No matter what Jemma says, he’s remaining hidden under the blanket, face buried in the pillow. Jemma starts to worry, when he doesn’t even stir, when she brings him breakfast and something to drink. The food and the water remain untouched. Jemma sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Fitz’s back. She hopes he’s going to talk to her. But he doesn’t say a word. So she talks instead. It has helped in the past. She stays and talks. About anything that comes to her mind. In the end, she just slanders about Milton and everyone at university.

When it’s about to get evening again, Fitz gets out of bed so very slowly, he looks like an old man. His eyes are red and his face almost grey. He goes to the bathroom and stays there for a long while.

Jemma remains sitting on the bed, nervously playing with her hands.

When he comes back, he doesn’t look at her. Just gets back into bed and pulls the blanket over his head. Jemma decides to go to sleep sooner. For some reason, she feels horribly exhausted. And helpless. She lays down beside Fitz and wills her worried thoughts to shut up.

When she’s almost asleep, she thinks she can hear him whisper a husky “I’m sorry,” into her ear, but she’s not sure if she’s not just imagining it.

The next day, Fitz has a panic attack, so violent, his whole body tenses up for half an hour and she’s almost about to call an ambulance because he doesn’t stop hyperventilating. But she manages to somehow calm him down and holds him while he breaks down in tears, feeling incredibly exhausted. Again.

It gets even worse.

When she comes home from the grocery store the next day, she finds him in their bedroom, throwing clothes into a suitcase. She freezes on the doorstep, staring at him. He’s moving slowly, but deliberately.

“Fitz,” Jemma says as calmly as she can, although her heart is beating so loud, it echoes in her ears. “Fitz, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t stop his slow movements. In front of her eyes, he throws another shirt into the suitcase. “I’m leaving.”

Jemma feels her stomach drop. “Why?” She asks carefully.

Fitz finally stops packing, to look at her. His eyes are filled with desperation. “Jems … I can’t expect this from you. It’s too much. I’m a mess. And … and … Look. I don’t want you to be a mess with me together. You don’t deserve that.” He averts his gaze, swallows, and reaches for a pair of socks. With a hint of hysterical amusement, Jemma notices it’s the one with the bananas and monkeys. Robin got it for Fitz’s birthday. “I’ll either go to Coulson and Robin, or to the hospital. I … I don’t know yet,” he says in a horrible wrong bright tone.

“Fitz. I love you,” Jemma says softly.

He flinches. A frown appears on his face. “I’m pretty sure love isn’t about self-sacrifice, Jemma,” he murmurs, still not looking at her.

She gets what he means. And she knows he’s right in a certain way. They have a good support system after all, with therapy and his family. But … No. She can’t let him leave. Doesn’t want to. She clears her throat. “But I want to be there for you. It’s my decision. We can get through this together.”

Fitz finally stops and glances up at her. A tear sparkles in the corner of his eye. “All I want for you, is to be happy,” he whispers, voice choked.

Jemma smiles weakly. “I know. You _are_ making me happy, Fitz. And just because you’re having bad days doesn’t mean I’m going to be less happy. I don’t only want you when you’re fine and jolly. I always want you.”

“Yeah that’s … That’s hard to believe. I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, and then he goes to sit on the edge of the bed, hides his face in both hands and starts to cry.

Jemma bites her lip. After a moment, she goes to him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m pathetic,” Fitz sobs.

“No you’re not. You’re afraid. And you have your reasons,” she says softly. You were punished for being yourself in the past. Oh Fitz.

“I … I should be ok. I should be better by now. You … This … It makes me happy. And I want to enjoy it. But … Something in my head keeps screaming that you will leave me eventually. That I am too-too broken. That I’m not good enough. That … that I can’t give you what you need,” he gasps, bending over as if in terrible pain.

“That voice is lying, Fitz,” Jemma says softly. She sits beside him. “Listen … Why don’t you talk to your therapist? You could ask her if she can prepone your appointment. Tell her you’re having a difficult time right now. And after you talked to her, you can still decide what you want to do, alright? If you think you have to go to Coulson for a while, I won’t mind. I … I don’t want you gone. But if it’s what you need … Still. I want you to know that’s not me trying to get rid of you. I want to share everything with you, Fitz. Joy and pain, I told you so. You shared my pain too. I … That’s not me self-sacrificing myself or something. I know that we shouldn’t try to get through all the mental health stuff alone, that’s why we go to therapists. But please understand, that I would never want you to leave. Never, Fitz. I love you.”

He looks at her, his eyes wet, but hopeful. “I love you too,” he whispers.

She smiles and presses a kiss to the top of his nose.

He goes then, to phone Doctor Addington. “She’s free this afternoon,” he tells Jemma, side-glancing the suitcase nervously. “I’ll go to her now. Uh. I … I’ll be back.”

She nods and watches him go.

She almost fears he won’t come back. The feeling is gnawing at her insides. She can barely concentrate on her book. But after a few hours, the door opens and Fitz enters, looking a bit better. He kisses her and puts his clothes back into the wardrobe.

It gets better the next day. Fitz is still looking exhausted and sometimes she can hear him whispering to himself, but he leaves the bed in the morning, and eats and drinks. She guesses talking to his therapist helped a lot and she’s glad, he got a chance to get some of his worrisome thoughts out without having to fear to be a burden to her. She can only imagine what was going on inside his mind the last few days.

She is just thinking about something that might brighten the mood, when her mother phones her. Jemma is glad to hear her voice. But then she asks Jemma to come home for two weeks and bring Fitz with her.

Jemma bites her lip and throws a glance at Fitz, who is sitting at the table, staring at an open book. She doesn’t think he’s reading. He rather looks like he’s in his own head again, his lips are moving slightly.

“I don’t know, mum,” she says quietly. “I’m not sure it’s the right time for …”

“I miss you, dear. And I finally want to meet your Fitz. You’ve been raving about him too much for too long. And don’t you two have holidays now anyway?” Her mother urges.

“Yes, but …”

“Your old room is big enough. We kept it clean and our apple trees are so full. Your father wouldn’t mind some help.”

Jemma smiles. The apple trees … She feels a little pang of longing. It would be wonderful, to be there again. To visit her childhood home A lot of nice memories are waiting for her on the fields her parents own. And … Well. A bit of fresh air and the comforting silent beauty of nature can’t be too bad for her and Fitz right now, can it? No city, no noise, no university, no annoying profs, no rooms filled with memories yet.

Apparently, she has been silent for too long, because her mother asks, “Jemma? Are you still there?” in an urgent tone.

“Yes, yes. I … Okay. Okay, mum. I’ll ask Fitz and phone you back, alright?”

“Great. I’m looking forward to see you, honey.”

When she cuts the call and sighs, Fitz looks at her questioningly.

Jemma bites her lip. “My mother invited us home. To their cottage in the countryside of Ashburton.”

“Oh.” Fitz scratches his arm. He’s frowning and she knows he’s already imagining scenarios. He has such a quick mind. And most of the times, it doesn’t show him the possible good outcomes of things. “I don’t know. I … Maybe you should go alone.”

“Fitz …”  
“No. Really. I’ll be alright. I don’t want your parents to be disappointed or …”

“Why should they be? I love you and that’s all they need to know. And they are going to love you, Fitz. I promise. Also, it’s really nice there. A lot of nature. Animals. Apple trees.” She smiles. “It’s idyllic, really.”

Fitz chews on his lip. “I need time to think about it, Jems. Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. Do you want to talk with Dr. Addington about it?”

Fitz shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Okay.” Jemma kisses his forehead and hopes he will go with her. She has a feeling that a visit to the countryside really could be what they need right now.


	2. Fitz

Fitz stares out of the bus window and thinks that the weather suits his mood just fine.

It’s raining. What started as a soft drizzle soon became a violent rush of thick drops. The water is cascading from the sky like a waterfall. The drops hit the window and flow down the glass side by side in quick thin lines. It almost looks like they are running a race. Puddles form on the street, the water filling every little scratch in the asphalt.

People bend under their umbrellas or hasten by with their jackets pulled over their heads.

The rain falls like it means to wash something away. Relentless and careless.

The sky is soft grey, and the clouds are heavy. The sun’s light is weak and blurry. It doesn’t look like the rain is going to stop soon. Fitz is glad Jemma reminded him to take an umbrella with him. He tends to forget it.

Fitz is on his way to therapy and he’s nervous. He carries an important question around with himself and hopes, Doctor Addington might help with it.

The bus stops, water splashes. This is his station. He sighs and grabs his umbrella, getting up and out. The wind is chilly. It cuts through his bones and he shivers, opening the umbrella to hide under it. He walks to the hospital fast, circling puddles and branches fallen from trees.

His thoughts are racing.

Shall he accompany Jemma to her hometown and her parents, or not?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’s stable enough. If his mind would play along with such an adventure that brings a lot of change and challenges, like meeting Jemma’s parents and not mess the first impression up completely.

He has a tendency to mess things up. There’s no denying it, Fitz thinks bitterly.

The best example are the last days …

He didn’t even see them coming. But when they arrived, they hit him like a truck. With full force.

And that’s the worst thing about it. Things have been okay, until they weren’t. He feels betrayed by his own mind.

He’s been doing so fine for so long … Well. At least way better than he did before.

Going back to university had been a big frightening change, but Fitz feels like he handled it pretty well. He has been visiting most of his classes regularly, though he stayed home sometimes, when he felt like he couldn’t stand to be in the lecture hall anymore, where he had to filter too many noises, smells and information.

And once, when he was in the middle of an exam, he had the feeling of an upcoming panic attack. A familiar tingling in his stomach, his throat tightening and his hands starting to tremble. Fitz focused on his breathing for a while, and it got better. He was able to finish the exam. Which was extremely satisfying.

Although it was nice to do something again and he was proud of himself for being able to finish all the courses he started – which weren’t much because he decided together with his therapist he shouldn’t overdo it right at the start – Fitz has also been relieved when the semester was over and he was able to relax at home.

Jemma and he had a few wonderful weeks. They went for walks through the park, eating ice cream and drinking milk shakes. They were talking for hours, holding hands and kissing, sitting on a bench under trees in which squirrels were hunting each other. Sometimes, he had the feeling, or rather fear, that Jemma started to need a bit more than kissing. But he was too nervous to ask about it or to just try more and see how she would react. He thought she would say something if the time was right. So he didn’t change anything and just tried to enjoy the time they spent together. Which was great, until his semi-annual appointment at the doctor, which he has been blocking out for so long, was due.

He had been terrified as always, knowing that getting through the examinations and tests would bring all the memories back at once, without a chance to escape them.

Added to this, the examinations are stressful, because he is attacked by a dozen sensations, by strange sounds and people touching him, poking him … His mind always starts to scream in distress and he wants to run away, but he can’t. He can just sit there and bear it.

The worst is, when they put him in the MRI. The noises are so loud, they are barely muffled through the earplugs they give him. A constant hammering, interrupted by high-pitched sqrueeches and dull pulsing. A nurse once told him to imagine it as spaceships in a space battle, shooting at each other. To make it seem more harmless. He tried and to his surprise, it worked at least a bit. But it’s still scary. And he counts the seconds until he can get out.

At least, this time, he had Jemma with him. He didn’t even ask her if she would come. When he told her about the appointment, she just said, alright I’m coming with you, and he was incredibly glad.

His joy of seeing Jemma in the waiting room was endless. Before, he has been alone. Or Coulson has been there. Which was great too. But different. Coulson is like an anchor, Jemma is the ship, holding them on the ocean, sailing towards better memories and maybe even something he can call happiness without feeling like there’s lurking some disaster behind a corner.

Because even if they are together, that doesn’t mean the bad days and worrisome thoughts stopped.

He hasn’t been that surprised, that the time after the appointment hasn’t been the best. First came the seizure, that gave Jemma a terrible scare – he could see the fear in her eyes after it, even when she tried to hide it – and made him anxious about their relationship again.

He could feel it as he slipped into the depressive episode, unable to stop it.

The days of drowning began forcefully. He didn’t want to get up. Didn’t want to move at all. Somehow, Jemma’s presence, her encouraging words and hopeful careful touches made it all worse. They made him feel guilty. Why couldn't he just be happy with her around? Why couldn't he stop being down and causing her worries?

His mind was poison, constantly filling every thought with venom.

Maybe it would be better if he left Jemma. Jemma deserved to be happy and how was she supposed to be happy, when she had to witness Fitz down spiralling? It wasn’t fair. At the same time, he told himself over and over again, that she loved him. She said so and he _knows_. But still. He listened to his thoughts and fears and eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He got up like a robot, feeling like someone, something, was steering him. He packed his suitcase. But Jemma got home and stopped him.

She loves you. She doesn’t want you to be gone. She wants you to stay even if you’re miserable and … Yes. It’s true. But Fitz really hopes Jemma doesn’t sacrifice too much for this relationship. In his worst dreams she yells at him, that he’d worn her out. That she will never be happy again because of him. He tells Doctor Addington and they talk about relationships and love a lot.

He got better again. Still depressed and careful around Jemma. But better.

And now, now Jemma’s parents want her to come home to Ashburton and they want to see Fitz too.

He wouldn’t mind a little trip with Jemma. But the fact, that it’s a four hour train ride to her hometown in which her parents would await them, is making it difficult. He’s scared. Uncertain.

So at therapy, that’s the first thing he addresses.

“Jemma wants to go visit her parents. In Ashburton,” he says, staring at the aquarium. There’s a new fish. It’s big, white and yellow. Jemma would have known its name. And more. Fitz is sure she would have been able to talk about this single fish for an hour. And he would have listened, happily. The thought of Jemma almost makes him cry and he presses the tears back angrily. The session has just started and he’s already about to become a mess, great.

Doctor Addington looks at him like she knows. By now he’s sure she’s able to read his mind like a book. It’s not always a pleasant thought or feeling, but he knows it’s important. Because it’s better if the thoughts are outside than staying inside, where they can suffocate him. “Lovely. But Ashburton is quite far away,” she notes, already a thought ahead.

“Yeah. Uh. She wants me to go with her. Her parents want to meet me and … Well,” Fitz clears his throat, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt nervously.

“I see. How do you feel about that?”

Fitz bites his lip. Anxious. Mostly anxious. He wants to make Jemma happy. But there are so many things that could go wrong and so many things that would be a challenge for him. Every time he thinks of it, a new thing adds to his mental list. “Like you said, it’s quite far away. What if … if I have another seizure or a panic attack. A bad one. I couldn’t go here, I couldn’t attend therapy sessions.” Fitz squeezes his hand and shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’m stable enough. And it’s not only that. It’s also … I’m not good at dealing with changes, you know that. This would be such a big change. There would be a different bed, different noises at night, different smells. And Jemma’s parents. They are going to want to learn everything about me, because I’m the guy her daughter is living with. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with being questioned and watched all the time. What if they are disappointed and tell Jemma to find someone else …”  
He stops. The thought hurts. A lot. He goes back to staring at the aquarium.

“For how long would you two be away?” Doctor Addington eventually asks.

“Two weeks,” Fitz murmurs. That sounds like an awfully long time. It isn’t. Not really. But there is a lot that could go wrong in two weeks. “Do you think I could – should – go?”

“I think it could help you, to see that you can trust your body and mind. It’s a challenge, but challenges can be good, if you need to see how far you can go by now. And if it gets really bad, you can still say you need a break or need to leave sooner. I’m sure no one will mind. I think, Jemma wouldn’t invite you to her parent’s home, if she didn’t think they would like you. But no matter what happens, your wellbeing always comes first, you know that now. So if it gets too much, get out of it. That’s your right.”

Fitz nods. She’s right. He doesn’t have to stay, he doesn’t have to act like everything’s fine if it isn’t … The question is, will he be brave enough to leave, if he’s facing Jemma and her parents? He will have to be.

In the evening, he sits beside Jemma on the bed and tells her, that yes, they can go. She hugs him and spreads kisses all over his face. He smiles and hugs her back, burying his nose in her hair.

_It will be okay_, he tells himself and his sceptic mind. It will be okay.

Jemma is really looking forward to the trip. She shows him pictures of her hometown on the internet. It looks nice. Calm and peaceful. Mountains in the distance, covered in green. Wide fields, huge golden corn and ears, swaying in the wind. A lake, reflecting clouds, sparkling in a beautiful light blue. Meadows. Cottages. Little old houses and stone streets.

Jemma chatters about doing walks through the countryside, making picnics and going swimming.

“We could even try skydiving,” she says thoughtfully. “My father knows someone there who offers it.”

Fitz gulps. His stomach drops miles down. “What?”

Jemma laughs. “Well. It’s one of the things I would really like to try at least once in my life. Among diving with sharks, snorkelling in a coral riff, bungee jumping and all that. There are so many fun things to do.”

“You mean dangerous things,” Fitz says. He thinks of jumping out of a plane and falling through the air, down, down, seeing the ground getting closer. He shivers violently. No. No, no, no. That’s not one of the things he needs in his life. Jemma looks at him and her smile quickly fades. “Fitz. We don’t have to. You don’t have to. It was just an idea. I wouldn’t ever force you.”

“Can we go back talking about doing things on the ground?” Fitz pleads.

Jemma laughs. “Sure. You know, there’s a lovely library in Ashburton. I have been there so often, every librarian knew my name and Mrs. Harlow always brought me tea. Wild berry tea. My favourite back then. I always sat in the Paddington bear armchair. It was so fluffy and big, I basically sank in it.” Jemma smiles in remembrance. “I want to show you.”

Fitz smiles. That’s better. “Okay.”

Jemma leans her head against his shoulder and he lays his arm around her, feeling happy for the moment.

He tells Coulson on the phone he will be away for two weeks. Coulson says that’s great and wishes him nice two weeks. It’s good to hear his warm and calm voice saying that. Again, Fitz thinks, it’s going to be okay.

They pack their things on a Saturday. Jemma made long check lists both of them, for which Fitz is quite grateful. She walks around the flat like a busy bee, making sure, there’s nothing in the fridge that could rot, or that all the plants are watered.

After she has checked that electricity is shut off four times and locked the door five times, they leave for the railway station.

Fortunately, the train isn’t too crowded. They get to sit opposite of each other, a table between them. The city scenery soon starts to fade, changing into a more rural landscape. Meadows and hills roll by. There’s a little village from time to time, just a few houses and a church with a tall tower.

Fitz is chewing on his lip nervously, trying to calm his thoughts down, which try to show him thousand horror scenarios. Jemma’s parents, telling him to leave, telling him to stay away from her daughter, telling him …

“They are going to love you, Fitz,” Jemma eventually says, laying her hand on his.

“How do you know?” Fitz asks.

Jemma smiles. “I know you and I know them. Trust me.”

_I want to_, Fitz thinks. _I'm trying. I just don’t want to be a disappointment._

At some point, Jemma falls asleep and he watches her. She looks cute, her head tipped back, her mouth slightly open and her hand still on his, twitching from time to time.

_It’s going to be okay_, Fitz thinks. It’s his mantra now.

It’s going to be okay …

* * *

When Fitz and Jemma get out of the train, the air actually smells a bit different. Fresh. Earthy.

Fitz looks around rubs his aching neck. He fell asleep too sometime, and now he has a strange taste in his mouth.

“There they are!” Jemma suddenly exclaims, waving at someone. Fitz turns around, seeing Jemma’s parents standing at the other end of the railway station. 

They are waving back.

Fitz has seen Jemma’s mother before, but not her father. He is tall and lean, his arms looking quite big. His face is tanned. He smiles and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. He looks like a calm guy, who listens a lot but doesn’t speak much. He opens his arms and Jemma walks faster. Her mother wipes her eyes with a tissue and lays her hand on Jemma’s father’s shoulder, like she needs to support herself.

Fitz falls behind a bit, both because he wants Jemma to have a moment with her parents alone and because he gets nervous very quick and very violent. The last four hours were nothing compared to how he feels now. His throat tightens and he tells himself that no, now is not the time for a panic attack. He’s going to make it through this. He just needs to be himself. Great, a spiteful voice in his head whispers dryly. As if being yourself isn’t something you hate most of the time …  
Shut up, Fitz thinks and forces a smile on his face, trying to focus on his breathing and straightening up.

He watches Jemma sinking into her father’s embrace, while her mother moves to lay an arm around them both. They all look so glad to see each other.

And Fitz feels happy for Jemma. He feels happy that she grew up in a loving family. He feels happy that she never had to witness a great loss or one of her parents wreaking their rage on her. Well. Of course her family isn’t perfect. He thinks that no family is perfect. He remembers the fact that she was told to put her emotions into a box and lock them away, for example. But, everyone makes mistakes. What counts is that she’s loved, truly loved, and that she grew up to be the great person she is today. The person he loves.

Fitz was so focused on his thoughts, that he didn’t even notice, he’s standing right in front of them now. His hand tightens around the handle of his suitcase and he clears his throat, when they all look at him, feeling like he’s a deer caught in the headlights and bets he looks exactly like this … “Uh. Hello,” he says.

Jemma’s father is the first to react. “You must be Fitz,” he says, smiling, offering a hand. “I’m Frank Simmons. Welcome in Ashburton. It’s not big, but still has a lot to offer.”

Fitz smiles and shakes Frank’s hand. It’s warm and calloused. It’s the hand of someone, who’s used to do hard work, he thinks. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here. Jemma told me a lot about this place. But please don’t tell her where the guy who offers skydiving is.”

Frank laughs. It’s warm and honest. Fitz is a bit surprised about the reaction, but at the same time, he feels some kind of relieve. Jemma’s mother shakes his hand as well. “It’s nice to see you again,” she says brightly. “Jemma told us so much about you.”

“Only good things,” Jemma chimes in, looking at Fitz pointedly, but there’s a laugh hidden in the corners of her eyes.

Fitz smiles at her and then at her mother. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“I’m sure you’re exhausted and hungry,” Frank says. “We’re here with the car.”

He precedes and they follow him. Fitz starts to feel like this isn’t going to be half as stressful as he imagined, but he still is careful to hope for too much.

* * *

  
The cottage is nice. It stands in the middle of a meadow, covered in colourful wildflowers. There’s a little garden, marked with stones. Fitz discovers tomato plants and some pumpkins. The building itself is made of grey bricks. It has two levels. There are two chimneys, one on either end of the cottage. There are also four big windows. In one of them sits a cat, looking at them curiously. It’s black, big and fuzzy, looking a bit wild.

Jemma cheers, when she discovers the animal. “Mr. Mistoffelees! I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

“That old chap is as tough as a boot,” Frank says, grinning. “Sometimes I think he’s going to survive us all. This year, he had a pretty terrible fight with another cat and almost lost his ear and an eye. I bet the other cat looks worse.”

Jemma laughs. She looks happy, Fitz thinks and in reaction, feels happier himself.

When they enter, Mr. Mistoffelees comes to rub his head against Jemma’s leg and sniff at Fitz’s hand, but walking away immediately, his tail raised. Jemma chuckles. “He needs a while to unbend,” she tells Fitz.

While Eleonore disappears in the living room, Frank leads Fitz and Jemma upstairs, to show them their room. The steps are creaking a bit. Fitz likes the noise. He also likes the smell. Old wood and something earthy. He starts to think he’s going to feel at home faster than usual. It’s obviously the room in which Jemma slept when they were here at the holidays.

There are a lot of shelves, bending under the weight of heaps of books. A mini model of the Tardis stands on the window sill beside some Harry Potter action figures.

Fitz immediately discovers a lot of pictures of Jemma as a child. There’s one of her, dressed as Hermione. It’s pretty obvious. “That was Halloween,” Jemma explains, blushing a bit. “Amazing costume,” Fitz says with a smile. “I was never good at disguising myself.” Jemma beams. “Oh. If you let me, I could do something on Halloween. We could partner up. It was always some kind of dream of me, to do some couple costume. Like, uh, Sherlock and Watson.”

“Let me bet,” Fitz says. “You’re going to be Sherlock?”

“You know me,” Jemma simply says, putting her suitcase on the bed. She sits beside it, catching her breath for a moment. She looks up at Fitz questioningly. “So? Do you think this is going to be … okay?”

Fitz smiles and sits beside her, testing the mattress with carefully shifting on it and reaching for the duvets, running his fingers over it. “More than okay,” he promises.

It’s true. Even if this is new and he has to get used to many new sensations, he has Jemma at his side and that’s usually enough to calm him down.

Jemma smiles back and looks relieved.

After they unpacked their suitcases, Jemma’s parents call them down for lunch.

  
Once they’re sitting at the table together, Fitz doesn’t have to talk a lot or answer questions at first, because Jemma is doing most of the talking, asking her father about the neighbours, the animals and if the library in the village is still there.

He gratefully concentrates on the food, which is delicious. A lot of vegetables, beans and potatoes, and a sauce that tastes a bit like cranberries. It tastes incredibly fresh and he figures, most of the ingredients are from the garden or the market in the villages.

When they’re finished, Eleonore says, “I made plum cake. I hope you like plum cake, Fitz.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Simmons. I do,” he says seriously.

She looks at him perplexed, then she laughs. “Oh please. Call me Eleonore.”

“Alright,” he nods, feeling his ears getting warmer.

The cake is as delicious as lunch. When he’s finished with it, he knows he’s not going to be able to eat more, even though he’s asked for a second piece twice.

There’s a moment of comfortable silence for a moment, until Frank Simmons clears his throat. “So, Fitz. What are you doing?” He asks, putting his fork aside and leaning back in his chair, laying his hands on his stomach.

Fitz swallows. Of course, they would like to know him further. It really isn’t surprising. They want to know who their daughter is spending her time with. He would want to know too, if he were in their position. Still. Now he definitely starts to get nervous.

“I’m studying engineering,” he says. Nothing more. Maybe it’s enough. But he doesn’t think so. Not really.

Frank nods. “A great, interesting subject. I hope I’m not being intrusive, but Eleonore told me you spent quite a lot of time in the hospital Jemma was doing her internship at. That’s where you two met, right?”

Fitz’s stomach drops and he feels a first hint of anxiety. He looks at his empty plate, at a few crumbles, and nods slowly. “That’s true. I was at the hospital and … I had to do a break from my studies. A pretty long one.”

Jemma looks at him concerned, then at her father, shaking her head lightly. “Dad …”

Fitz first wants to feel grateful for the interruption. But then something inside of him revolts against staying silent about this. Since he’s doing proper therapy, he has heard that he doesn’t have to be ashamed of this. It happened. It wasn’t his fault. And most important: It’s in the past. It doesn’t have to be his future. The more you talk about it, Doctor Addington told him, the more you realize it doesn’t control you or your actions. It’s a memory, Fitz. One you won’t get rid of. But one, you can leave behind you.

Talk about it.

“It’s alright,” he says firmly.

Jemma looks at him, surprised. Frank watches him too, but his face is calm and attentive as he shoves some leftover crumbs around on his plate.

“It’s alright,” he says a bit softer. “I can … I want to talk about it.”

Jemma’s eyes fill with emotions. She lays her hand on his and nods.

Fitz takes a deep breath. “I had to take a break in my studies, because I had an accident. A car hit mine, pushed me from a bridge. I fell into a river. I … I hit my head pretty hard and was unconscious after it.”

Jemma’s mother gasps and puts a hand over her heart. Frank looks serious, but he stopped moving his fork around. Jemma chews on her lip, her fingers running over his skin soothingly.

Fitz continues, his voice just shaking a little bit. “Some bystanders pulled me out of the car and the water. I was brought into the hospital. I was in a come for days and when I woke up … I couldn’t really talk or move. Brain damage.” He pats the side of his head with his fingers. “When I realized, everything changed, I was very depressed. And I …” He closes his eyes. This is the hardest part to talk about. The part he wants to forget the most. “I tried to kill myself.”

Eleonore gasps again. She looks close to tears now.

Fitz lowers his eyes. “I spent a long time in the psychiatric ward then. Not talking. And not really fighting to get better. I just didn’t see a reason,” he says quietly. After a moment, he looks at Jemma and smiles, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Then I met Jemma. She talked to me and helped me get through a panic attack. She was amazing. I’m happy to have her in my life now. I don’t think I would have gotten this far without her. I’m still doing therapy and there are bad days, but they are bearable because she’s there. Jemma is wonderful. She’s kind and sees the good in someone, even if they don’t. I wouldn’t want to live without her.” His voice breaks a little at the end and he stops, hoping he didn’t say too much.

Eleonore wipes her eyes. Frank clears his throat. “Fitz. I think you’re a very tough smart young man. It’s terrible this had to happen to you. But now you are here, and my Jemma has told me that you helped her a lot too. When she had an accident herself, you were there for her.”

Jemma nods. She smiles at Fitz, her eyes a bit wet.

“I went to therapy myself by the way,” Frank adds. “I had to watch my friend dying, when I was twelve. He was hit by a tractor. He had no chance. I will never forget the pictures. But I learned to look forward rather than backwards. Just like you’re doing now. And I think you’re on a good way. It’s never wrong to seek help, more people should do so.”

Elenore nods and reaches out to touch her husband’s shoulder. He lays his hand on hers and smiles.

“Thank you,” Fitz says quietly. Frank’s words moved him. A lot. His heart is beating quick and loud in his chest. He feels nervous and still anxious, but when he raises his head and looks around, he sees that everyone is looking at him either fondly or appreciatingly. Eleonore smiles at him. “Are you sure you don’t want more cake, dear?” She asks.

Fitz suddenly feels his hand tremble and presses it against his leg. He doesn’t think he would be able to eat properly. Not now. Also, his stomach feels fluttery. The pre-stage of nausea. It hasn’t been as bad as he’d anticipated, but it’s been enough, obviously. “No. Thank you,” he says. “It’s delicious but I’m really sated right now.”

Her smile widens and she nods. “Alright. Please make yourself at home, Fitz,” she says while getting up and collecting the plates to put them back in the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Fitz repeats, some of the anxiety disappearing, as he notices how the atmosphere in the room changes to calm and lazy after-lunch satisfaction.

Jemma drinks the last of her orange juice.

Frank grabs his tobacco and rolls himself a cigarette, looking thoughtful.

Fitz leans back in his chair and massages his hand, which trembles less, but still twitches occasionally.

Jemma looks at him and reaches out to brush her fingers against his shoulder. “What about a walk?” she suggests quietly. “I’m so full.”

Fitz nods gratefully. He feels agitated, and like he has to move. He pushes his chair back and gets up a bit clumsily. Jemma takes his hand and leads him out the living room.

* * *

They leave the cottage and the garden in silence. Jemma turns right and they follow the street towards a little forest area. There’s no car in sight. The air is sharp and fresh.

When they walked a while, Jemma smiles at Fitz, locking arms with him. “Okay?” She asks.

“Yeah. Just … It was a lot.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. Like I said. I need to talk about it more, Jemma. It happened. It’s in the past. It can’t – shouldn’t – hurt me anymore. It’s a memory and it’s only going to be easier to bear, if I’m able to leave it where it belongs. In the past.”

She watches him for a moment, calm and attentive. “That’s very brave, Fitz,” she finally says. “You know … I’m not able to talk about the car accident with my parents like you did. Not yet, at least. I guess I’m too scared to remember it right now.”

“It’s still fresh, Jemma. Give it time. I needed months. And I still need time,” he says.

She nods, moving closer to him.

The path changes. It’s getting narrower and stonier. Asphalt slowly forms into the brown dry sand of a beaten track. Tall trees are towering around them, mostly firs and deciduous trees. The signs of early autumn already show. Leaves are turning into yellow and orange slowly.

When they leave the forest area, they see a meadow that’s fenced. A few horses are grazing on it. They are tall and lean, strong muscles twitching under the short brown or black hair as they are shooing away the flies with their tails.

“Oh, look at these horses! They are so pretty!” Jemma leans on the wooden railing, her eyes sparkling as she watches the horses. A mild breeze makes her hair floating. She is so beautiful. Fitz doesn’t watch the horses, he watches her.

The grasses are tufting and waving as the ocean on a sunny windswept day. The green hues deepen and lighten with the movement of the clouds, which are pulled over the sky by the breeze, hiding the sun and revealing it again.

After a while, they walk on, avoiding puddles of mud. They find a little hill with a bench on it. They sit down on it to catch their breath and watch the scenery splayed out in front of them. The meadows and trees, the silver line of the river behind it. And the horses which look way smaller now. Colourful spots, moving around lazily.

“Beautiful,” Jemma states quietly.

Fitz hums in agreement. He’s glad to be here. Everything turned out to be way less complicated than he has anticipated, like usually. He feels welcome. Jemma’s family is warm, and they look at him like they see something good in him, which is the most important thing. He doesn’t know what he would do or feel, if they looked at him with pity or the uncertainty if he’s the right one for their daughter in their eyes. It feels good to be out of the city too, the air so fresh and healthy, the nature an endless wild garden that spreads out to all sides.

Maybe, two weeks aren’t enough after all.

Fitz throws a glance at Jemma and sees, that she looks satisfied as well. A fresh rush of love wells up in his chest and he reaches out to take her hand. She smiles as he takes it, wrapping her fingers around his.

It starts to rain. Softly first, then more violent.

Fitz’s first instinct is to seek shelter under a tree, but Jemma laughs and raises her head to blink up at the sky. Her hair already darkens as it’s soaked with raindrops. Water pearls run over her face and down her neck. She looks at him, smiling, and his breath falters as he realizes she looks just as beautiful as always. There’s a raindrop sitting on her nose and he feels the sudden urge to kiss it away. So he does.

Jemma chuckles. It sounds pleasantly surprised.

“You know what, I always wanted to kiss in the rain,” she says softly and laughs nervously. “Just like in the movies. I know. Stupid.”

Fitz shakes his head and cups her face. They lock eyes and Jemma lays her hand on his arm. The touch is warm, a stark contrast to the chilly water hitting them relentlessly. He kisses her, kisses the droplets from her lips and feels her smile against his. She kisses him back and they move closer together instinctively, creating a shelter of warmth protecting them from the gusting wind.

It’s a burst of love. It’s not caring that the water soaks through their clothes, chilling their skin and causing them goose bumps.

Nature brings the rain, their inner sunshine comes through, nevertheless.


	3. Fitz / Jemma

[Fitz]

Fitz watches Jemma drying her hair with a towel and asks himself not for the first time when and how this became his life.

They came back from their walk soaked and shivering. While they were kissing, the rain got fiercer and they ran home, under a sky that was dark and angry, thunder rolling in the distance and lightnings flashing. His shoes long stopped resisting the water and soon, water was squishing between his toes. The water was everywhere, but it didn’t really matter. Not when Jemma’s laugh and smile lightened up the whole world, not when her hand was holding his the whole way to the cottage.

Jemma’s mother made a shocked noise, when they stumbled inside, leaving wet splotches on the carpet. She scolded them, telling them they totally caught themselves a heavy cold. But her lips were twitching, and she shook her head, obviously amused about this quite unhealthy amount of young carelessness.

Now they’re in the bathroom. Fitz is sitting on the closed toilet lid, feeling the warmth slowly returning to his body.

They undressed and their clothes are drying on a clothesline, after they wringed them out thoroughly.

He got a very fuzzy bath robe. He likes how the fabric feels on his bare skin and he lets his fingers glide over it absently, as he still watches Jemma, who started humming, while reaching for a brush. She combs her still wet hair and it smooths out, falling back over her shoulders, dark and glossy.

A smile lingers on her face. She radiates warmth and satisfaction.

God. Fitz loves her so much.

And she loves me too, he thinks.

The thought alone is magic. It's so powerful it almost chokes him. There are still moments in which he thinks this is too good to be true. That something is going to happen. To them. He was so certain he’s cursed. So certain the uncaring universe had nothing to offer after knocking him off his feet right after he has just managed to get back on them. But Jemma came into his life like a sudden burst of sunshine comes after a heavy rain shower and she stayed. She’s still staying, even after seeing and experiencing him at his worst. At his lowest point. The road got bumpy often enough, but she didn’t tell him to leave or left herself.

While Jemma is putting paste on her toothbrush now, Fitz wonders if he will ever be able to accept this as his life. Hopefully. Even Jemma’s parents did or said nothing, that would indicate disappointment or even dislike. They seem to like him. He’s never been particular good at socialising and feels awkward around strange people, but somehow they made it easy for him. He feels welcome. Which at the same time makes him feel so relieved, a heavy weight seemed to have disappeared from his chest and he’s glad he decided to go with Jemma. Sometimes, no, _often_, being brave actually pays off.

He watches Jemma and feels warmer. He loves her. He wants to spend his life with her. If she wants to spend hers with his.

One step forward, one more leading him away from the past and into the future.

Jemma smiles at him around her toothbrush, a little bit of white foam sticking to the corner of her mouth and Fitz thinks he has never been happier in his life.

* * *

Once they are in their bedroom, dry and warm, Jemma flops on the bed with a relieved sigh. She yawns with her hand in front of her mouth.

Fitz hesitantly sits on the edge of the mattress, testing the feeling of it. It’s alright. Not that different from their own. He has slept worse. Even at the hospital, it had taken him days to get used to the bed, because the mattress was too hard and the blanket was too light. His senses were screaming. Until Mack – God. He really misses Mack sometimes. He has to go for that coffee with him when they are back … - brought him a heavy fuzzy blanket which was just perfect. Fitz still isn’t sure how Mack figured it out, without Fitz saying a word.

For this vacation, he brought his blanket from home, so he won’t have to worry about it. He puts the pillow on Jemma’s side. He won’t need it. But he knows she likes to bury herself in as many soft pillows as possible.

He lays on his back beside Jemma and looks up at the ceiling. He doesn’t think he will have that much troubles to get used to being here as he initially thought. The noises and smells are kind of nice. It’s in fact very silent. No cars. No yelling people. Just soft animal noises and the herb smell of freshly cut grass. He feels like he could get used to living on the countryside.

Jemma looks at him attentively. “Alright?” She asks with a small smile.

“Yeah. Uh. Can we cuddle?” He feels the sudden urge to be close to her but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels a little ridiculous. He fights the feeling, because he is _allowed to express his needs_. Doctor Addington’s voice mixed with Jemma’s echoing in his head.

Jemma’s smile widens. “Of course.” She shifts closer and wraps her arms around him. She’s warm. Her familiar scent fills his nose and he presses his face against her chest.

“Do you like it here?” She asks after a while.

“Yes. It’s nice. Quiet,” he mumbles, already feeling sleepy.

“Hmm. Yes. Quiet is great,” Jemma agrees. “I forgot how wonderful it is to not hear any cars honking.”

“We could live on the countryside too, someday,” Fitz says slowly, his heart beating quicker. Because _someday _is the future. Someday would mean that they stay together, that they live that future together … And sometimes he doesn’t know, isn’t sure, is afraid, that Jemma doesn’t want to. But she says, “Yes. That would be nice.” His heart jumps a loop.

“Have you ever been on vacation before?” She asks him, her fingers drawing circles on his back.

“Yeah. A few times. The first time was with my parents, but I can barely remember it. It was in Paris. I have a picture. My mother in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding me in her arms. I was a baby.” He hesitates. Like always when he thinks of his mother, a low burning pain pools in his stomach. “I wish I could remember more of it. And more of her,” he says quietly. He has too little memories of his mother. And what he has, is already hazy. Something he can’t quite catch.

“You miss her,” Jemma says. It’s not really a question.

“Yeah. She was … I don’t know. Whenever I think of her, I remember her voice. And how she was soothing me. I remember feeling warm and loved.” He swallows, the pain spreading and getting sharper.

“She sounds fantastic. Fitz … I’m sorry I made you sad,” Jemma says, regret swimming in her voice.

“No. You … It’s not your fault,” Fitz hurries to say. It really isn’t. Behind almost everything – behind every word or sensation or sight, hides a memory. Most of them are bad. But Jemma can’t know. She can’t take a look inside him. And he doesn’t want her to think she should be careful around and with him all the time. “I went on vacation with Coulson too.” He has to laugh at the memory coming to his mind. “Our first vacation was kind of a total disaster.”

Jemma grins. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. Coulson thought it would be a great idea to go camping in the forest. Well. First we struggled to build the tent up, and when we finally managed to, it was completely dark. And a storm surprised us. Everything was wet and cold.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah, and ants ate our food. They were big. I'd never seen such ants before. We were pretty scared of them. He finally decided to drive to a hotel. I must admit though, it was kind of beautiful deep in the forest. It was so silent. Only birds and crickets and the wind. And so many stars. More than here.” Fitz smiles. “After that, we never tried to do camping again. But we went to the beach. It was my first time being at a beach. It was beautiful, although I got pretty scared of the ocean, because it was deep and seemed endless. But Coulson was always there, reassuring me, holding me up when I panicked and forgot to swim. He was always there. And always patient, even when I had to be really annoying, because it was never easy for me, to be in a strange place and get used to all the new things, like the hotel beds.”

He has to stop again. This time, it’s the gratefulness and love he feels for Coulson, that makes his throat feel tight. “I owe him so much. I wish … I … I really want to make him proud,” he says hoarsely.

“You already did, Fitz,” Jemma tells him. “Look at you. You could have given up. But you didn’t. You never did. You always pushed through.”

Fitz nods, feeling grateful. “And you?” He asks with a small smile. “What about your vacations?”

“Hmm. Well, we always went on vacation in the summer holidays. For two weeks. We were in Paris too. In London. And at a few beaches.” Jemma thinks, then chuckles. “I’m afraid my parents were always a bit disappointed, because I spent a lot of the vacation reading and studying. I wasn’t so interested in doing nothing or going swimming. I felt like missing something, you know?” 

He smiles. That sounds a lot like Jemma. “I know.”

“We could go on vacation together again too. I always wanted to visit the US. See the Niagara Falls,” Jemma murmurs. She sounds sleepy. Her eyes are closed and her fingers still drawing vague patterns on his back. “But we have time,” she adds softly.

_Time. _

Fitz’s heart jumps.

Yes. Time.

There’s no need to rush. There’s no need to be afraid this could be over tomorrow. They have time. He sticks to the thought as he’s falling asleep just as Jemma’s breaths start to even out, tickling his skin.

Time.

He falls asleep soon, listening to Jemma’s even breaths, feeling hopeful.

[Jemma]

Jemma awakes to the sound of a crowing cock. It takes her a moment to remember where she is, and she smiles. It’s nice to look out of the window and see trees and fields stretching out instead of tall grey buildings, dusty streets and cars.

She turns around to face Fitz, who is still sleeping. He seemed to be doing fine with the changes. But then, the air in the countryside makes tired, she knows. She has been fallen asleep almost immediately after closing her eyes.

She decides to read for a while, until Fitz wakes up. When he does, he immediately reaches for her, wrapping his arms around her. It’s somewhat of an awkward bear hug. She laughs and kisses the top of his nose softly. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” Fitz says and yawns. “No nightmares.”

“Great. What do you want to do today?”

“Hmm, don’t know. Please pick something you’ll like. I’ll be happy as long as it’s something we are doing together,” Fitz murmurs, wiping at his eyes.

Jemma smiles. It doesn’t take her long to think of something. “What about a picnic? The weather is said to be lovely today. I think we have to make good use of it, as long as we can. Also, I want to show you something.”

“Okay. Sounds lovely.” Fitz sits up and swings his legs out of bed. “Have to use the bathroom.” She watches him stumbling out on his bare feet and smiles. Oh, she already knows the day is going to be lovely.

* * *

When Jemma goes down to the kitchen for a glass of water, she meets her mother there, who is squeezing lemons. “Good morning,” she says, licking some spilled lemon juice off her hand. “Did you two sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s lovely to wake up without city vibes,” Jemma says and pours herself a glass of tap water.

“Would you get me some flour, honey and jam from the cellar?” Her mother asks and reaches for another lemon.

Jemma grimaces. The cellar. No one goes down there happily. But she says, “Sure,” and takes a sip of her water. When she's here, the least she can do is to help her parents a bit.

“Thank you, darling. Oh. And Milton’s mother called today …”

Ugh. Milton’s name alone manages to make Jemma feel slightly nauseous. Her stomach clenches. A sudden wave of horror rushes through her. Please. Please don’t tell me, you want to invite them over while I and Fitz are here, she thinks. Please no … Suddenly, the day seems not as lovely anymore.

But her mother laughs and shakes her head when she sees the expression on her daughter’s face. “Oh Jemma. Don’t look so scared. She called to tell me that she has two tickets for a musical she can’t visit. Mamma Mia. You know I wanted to see that musical forever.”

“Oh. Yes.” Jemma exhales a relieved sigh. “So, are you going? With Dad?”

“Yes. But … It’s in three days,” Eleonore says, frowning. “I really hope you and Fitz don’t mind, if we are away for Friday and the weekend. I will take care the fridge is well filled, I can bake some more cake and …”

“Mum. Please don’t worry. We don’t mind at all,” Jemma says. After the initial surprise, she starts to feel a first hint of excitement at the thought of being alone in the cottage with Fitz for a few days. Maybe she should be ashamed for how quickly her thoughts travelled off to the fact that she really wants to take a step forward when it comes to their, well, physical relationship? But she can’t help it. It would be a good opportunity. They would be relaxed, there would be nothing to worry about. And there would be just the two of them. She could light some scented candles … Nothing too strong, since it only would overwhelm Fitz. But something like honey, or vanilla ...

Eleonore sighs. “I don’t know. I feel like it’s not polite. But well. It’s such a great opportunity. You know my love for musicals.”

“It’s alright, Mum. I promise. Go and have a good time. We’ll be alright,” Jemma tells her, setting her glass back on the counter after taking the last sip of the water.

“Alright, darling.” Her mother turns to look at her attentively, tilting her head. “You are on birth control, right?”

“Mum!” Jemma sputters shocked, feeling her face getting warmer. Were her thoughts actually written on her face? Was it that obvious? Or is it just a mother-knows-thing? “Of course I am! Since I’m sixteen.” It did a lot for her skin back then. She had less pimples.

Eleonore smiles mildly and pours the lemon juice into a bottle, mixing it with soda. “Don’t mind me. But there are certain things a mother needs to know. While I certainly don’t mind the thought of getting grandparents and Fitz is a charming young man with the best manners, I’m sure right now wouldn’t be great timing, darling. With your studies and plans and all.”

Oh. Oh God. Jemma really doesn’t want to hear more of this. “I’m going to the cellar,” she says and leaves the kitchen, her ears burning.

She thinks she hears her mother chuckling.

* * *

  
When Jemma goes back to the bedroom, Fitz just finished to dress. He buttons his shirt with a concentrated frown. When Jemma looks at him, her mother’s words echo in her head. So she really would be okay if Fitz and her got children? Build a family? Admittedly, it has been on her mind before … But well, they are still at the beginning of their relationship. She shoves the thoughts away and focuses on the presence.

“My mother just sent me to get something from the cellar. Would you come with me?” She asks.

Fitz looks at her surprised. “Uh. Sure.”

“Thank you. It’s a little bit scary down there,” Jemma says. “The lights are broken. Have been since ages now. So we have to use a torch.” She shows it to him, puts it on and goes down the stairs, followed by Fitz.

Jemma feels a familiar hint of revulsion, when she opens the door to the cellar. There are a few spiderwebs in the corners. The smell is mossy and dusty. She scrunches her nose up and coughs. Five steps lead to down from the door. They creak as they step on them.

“My Cousin Reggie always told me there were monsters living down there,” Jemma tells Fitz and laughs, as a pleasant shiver runs over her spin that reminds her of the past. Reggie was five years older and kind of an idiot. But a nice one. There are little things he takes seriously. Jemma always thought he would become a clown or a tv show moderator, something which offered him the opportunity to made fun of people and make them laugh – but instead, Reggie became a child doctor. Which, admittedly, fits too. 

Jemma starts to look around in the shelves for the flour, when she notices Fitz hasn’t been following her. Instead, he is still standing on the last stair step. He looks tense and he’s clenching and unclenching his fists as his jaw is working. His breaths are heavy.

Jemma frowns. “Fitz? Are you alright?”

He nods quickly, but the motion seems robot like. “Yeah. I’m al-alright.”

Jemma feels a hint of worry. It sounds like he wants to convince himself. Also he hasn’t stuttered in short sentences for quite a long time now. Not noticeable.

And that’s when it hits her. She wants to mentally slap herself for being so forgetful. Fitz doesn’t just not like dark cellars, like her. He doesn’t just not like to be in cellars because someone told him ghost live down there. He’s terrified, because he was repeatedly dragged into a cellar by his father, locked in, left there in the darkness for hours that must have seemed endless … Jemma’s stomach clenches and she hurries back to Fitz, who looks embarrassed and slightly angry now.

“Fitz, I’m sorry. You don’t have to be down here with me. You can wait upstairs.”

“No. I … I have to, to face my fears,” Fitz says, as if he’s echoing the words of someone else. He obviously tries to sound firm, but there’s a tremble in his voice and his stutter gets worse. “I can’t al-always run a-a-away from it.” He raises his chin up defiantly.

Jemma feels sympathy mixed with admiration. He’s so very brave. She nods and takes his hand. His fingers are tightening around hers, and she hears him take a deep breath, before he walks down the last step and follows her deeper into the cellar.

Fitz’s breaths are quick and heavy beside her. When she throws him a glance, she can see sweat glistening on his forehead.

But he stays, even helps her to find the strawberry jam. When they are finished and leave the cellar, he looks thoughtful and pained, chewing on his lip.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jemma asks carefully, gladly closing the door.

Fitz swallows. He looks aside. “It’s just … Sometimes I get so angry at myself, not always because I’m scared, but, be-because, you know, as a child, I thought … I thought I deserve it.”

Jemma’s stomach clenches. She doesn’t want to imagine Fitz as a little boy, sitting on the cold floor of the cellar in the darkness, trying not to cry, trying to be silent, thinking he did something wrong, that it was his fault and he deserved the punishment, because it hurt so much. But the pictures come to her mind anyway. She cups Fitz’s face and looks him in the eye. “You didn’t. You didn’t deserve any of this. He was being cruel, and you were a victim of his cruelty. Don’t you ever think any of it was your fault.”

Fitz nods. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

Jemma kisses him then, knowing all too well it doesn’t make things disappear, but closeness at least often takes the edge away.

* * *

The breakfast is more of a lunch. The table bends under the weight of plates, bowls and bottles with different kind of juices. Frank has made apple juice from the apples in the garden and it tastes fantastic. Way more intense than every apple juice you could get in a shop in the city, Jemma thinks.

The mood is nice, calm and unhurried. Jemma’s father asks Fitz about his studies and listens interested. He also asks about Coulson. “Your father sounds like a great man. I would very much like to meet him one day,” he says.

Fitz blinks, looking surprised but also a little bit proud.

Jemma could have hugged her father for this. She doesn’t know if Fitz feels strange or sad seeing her family and knowing he didn’t have that. But mentioning Coulson and calling him Fitz’s father is certainly brightening up his mood, Jemma is sure of that.

Eleonore seemingly decided to spoil them as much as she can before she and Jemma’s father leave for the musical. Or maybe, Jemma thinks, watching slightly amused as her mother convinces Fitz to eat another slice of cake, she’s just thinking they are way too thin and need more meat on the ribs.

For their planned picnic, she packs them two baskets: fruit salad, more cake, sandwiches, two bottles filled with tea, biscuits – it would have been a lot more if Jemma didn’t say they could never manage to eat all this as a pair. They also take a blanket and Jemma sneaks two towels in when Fitz isn’t looking. Just in case.

When they are finally on their way, it’s afternoon.

They surpass fields, with grazing cows and sheep. They laugh when they notice that Mr. Mistoffelees follows them. The reddish cat’s tail is raised and for his age, he keeps track with them quite well. But when they walk towards the forest, he rather stays with the sheep apparently, watching them with a bored expression.

“Where are we going?” Fitz asks after a while.

Jemma smiles. “I want to show you something. It won’t take much longer.”

“Okay.”

Jemma finds the inconspicuous path she often walked in the past quickly. It leads them through some brambles, and she sees amazed, that there are already a lot of blackberries. They are small and crumpled, the colour a dark lilac rather than black, like in the supermarket, but when she tries some, the taste is intense and sweet instead of overly bitter. She hands Fitz a handful and laughs, when his lips turn slightly blue.

When they break through the bushes and walk on a glade, she sees it. The lake. It’s stretched out in front of them like a light-blue blanket, smooth, the surface only disturbed by occasional light breezes ruffling the water, or by air bubbles rising up, indicating there are fish.

On the other side of the lake are little rocks and Jemma smiles when she remembers sitting there as a little girl, letting her feet dangling into the cool water while her older cousins were watching her carefully. The rocks are surrounded by wild growing pines and firs. They are reflected in the lake, their contours slightly blurry.

The water sparkles in the sun. It looks inviting. Jemma is glad she brought the towels. After spreading the blanket out on the meadow, fixing it with their basekts, she looks at Fitz and smiles brightly. “Let’s go swimming.”

Fitz’s eyes widen in surprise. He looks around nervously. “Um. You’re sure?”

“No one ever comes here, Fitz. Trust me. When I was little, Reggie, Peter and Polly often took me here in summer, for a quick cooling off. We were always alone. And we would hear someone coming from the forest soon enough to be out of the water and back in our clothes.”

Fitz still looks uncertain. “Uh.”

Jemma laughs and pulls her yellow dress off. She throws it on the blanket and, after throwing a deliberately smug smirk at Fitz - At least she tries to look smug. She doesn’t know if she actually does. – unbuckles her bra. It joins her dress.

Fitz’s face blushes bright red. He stares at her, standing stockstill. “Um.”

“We can leave our underwear on, it’ll dry in the sun later,” Jemma says, because she’s a bit concerned, he could combust if she pulls off her panties too. She feels wild. A little like she’s a teenager doing actual teenager things. Which she almost never did. Well. It's never too late to try some things.

She jumps into the lake headfirst in what she hopes is an elegant plunge.

It’s a little shock.

The water isn’t freezing, but it isn’t warm either. It embraces her body in a chilly tight embrace and she swallows a bit of it before diving back up to the surface, breaching it with a gasp. She looks around and sees Fitz, who is occupied with neatly folding his shirt. Jemma chuckles and takes a moment to admire his chest, until he bends and pulls his socks off. He did gain weight in the last time and while he’s still thin, he looks rather fit now, than unhealthily skinny.

She’s treading water, her body slowly getting used to the water’s temperature, and watches as Fitz stumbles over the grass and little stones to the water. He stops, scrunches his nose up and looks very sceptic. He dips just the toes of one foot in and grimaces. After a moment’s hesitation he pads inside the lake until the water reaches his knees and he stops, wrapping his arms around himself, shivering. “It’s bloody awful cold!” He calls.

“You’ll get used to it!” Jemma calls back. “Just dive in!”

Fitz grumbles something she doesn’t quite get. But she’s pretty sure it involves the words “wet”, “bloody” and “crazy”.

He looks a bit tense. For a moment, she’s concerned she’s just brought him into another situation triggering his anxiety, a traumatic experience, but then she remembers how he said he wants to face his fears instead of running from them.

“Come on,” she says, waving at him. “Get in.”

Fitz grimaces and walks a few steps further, until the water is at his hip. “It’s still bloody awful cold,” he says, but finally draws in a breath and dips his head underwater.

It looks adorable and she chuckles. When Fitz’s head breaches the surface, he’s gasping and shaking water pearls out his hair. “Why am I doing this again?” He asks, and she definitely sees a hint of anxiety in his eyes, but after a moment he finally starts swimming with slow but powerful motions, until he reaches her.

“There you are,” Jemma says and kisses the top of his nose. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“This is not what I would call wonderful. I got wet in two days because of you,” Fitz grumbles. “You know, I don’t exactly like being wet and …”

Jemma slaps the water with the palm of her hand and it splashes into Fitz’s face.

“Hey!” Fitz flinches bac kand wipes at his eyes. He glares at her. But his lips are twitching.

Jemma laughs.

Fitz grins and splashes back. Jemma shrieks. She turns and swims to the middle of the lake as fast as she can, being followed by Fitz. He’s quick, she has to admit. Quicker than she expected. Once, he grabs her ankle and pulls her half underwater. She squeals in delight and pleasant shock, swallowing some water.

Fitz immediately lets go of her, looking at her with worry, an apologize already lingering on his lips. But she laughs at him and supports herself on his shoulders. When he realizes she’s having fun, he visibly relaxes.

They float like this in the middle of the lake, treading water. Fitz’s skin is warm and smooth. The water makes it shine. His eyes sparkle in the sun and they are ocean blue, Jemma can hardly avert her gaze from them.

Suddenly Fitz gasps. “I think a fish swam against my leg,” he says, squinting down into the water.

Jemma laughs. “Maybe he wants to test how you taste,” she jokes.

Fitz scoffs.

He looks back up at her and shakes his head with a smile. “I really don’t like being wet,” he says. “I don’t like being in the water. But with you … It’s okay with you.” He thinks for a moment. When he continues talking, his voice is heavy with emotions. “I wish, I’d met you earlier.”

“Oh Fitz. I wish the same. But I’m also incredibly grateful we met at all.”

Because … It didn’t have to happen. Everything would have been different, if Jemma hadn’t decided to study at the hospital. If Fitz hadn’t been in that hallway but in his room instead. Just one little thing, and everything would have turned out different.

“It’s a little miracle, isn’t it,” Fitz says.

“Yes. It is.”

They smile at each other and kiss. Fitz’s lips taste sweet. She licks a water pearl off them and Fitz chuckles. 

After, they swim a bit more, slowly and side by side.

It doesn’t take long, however, until Jemma is feeling exhausted and swims back to more shallow water, to get out of the lake. She drops on the meadow with a sigh, reaches for a towel and watches, as Fitz follows her on weak legs, sitting down beside her, breathing heavily. He looks tired but happy. All the physical therapy seemed to have paid off. She remembers days on which he had to support himself on his cane, even after he left the hospital.

Jemma lays on her back and blinks up to the sky which is clear and blue. No raincloud to be seen today. The sun is warm but not strong enough to burn their skin. They apparently don’t even need the towels. She strokes her fingers through the dry grass and sighs. “This is nice,” she says, curling her toes.

“Hmm,” Fitz makes and lays back too. He looks relaxed. The water pearls are running off his sides into the grass.

He turns to his side to look at her. His eyes are running over her body, sticking to her breasts for a moment. It feels surprisingly good, to be seen like this by him. A wave of desire catches her, by now a familiar feeling. But it’s also joined by a hint of self-consciousness. She fights the sudden need to hide. Fights the uprising what ifs. What if he doesn’t like something about my body? What if my breasts are too small? What if … But that’s ridiculous. She doesn’t have to be perfect. What even is perfect? The most important thing is that she feels comfortable in her body. And she does. She doesn’t need to hide anything.

Fitz is still looking at her. His eyes are a bit hazy. 

“What are you thinking?” Jemma asks him, because the silent is deafening.

“That you are beautiful,” he says simply.

Jemma’s breath falters. A pleasant shiver runs from her toes up her spine. She feels warm. It seems like no matter how often he says these words, they are still able to completely baffle her. She smiles at Fitz and he smiles back.

“Can I touch you?” She asks.

Fitz nods.

Jemma moves closer to him and turns on her side too. She reaches out to cup his face, thumb stroking under his ear. “This okay?”

He hums.

Jemma smiles and goes to run her fingers through his hair the way she knows he likes. His eyes flutter and he makes a content little noise in the back of his throat. She looks at his stretched neck and bends forward to spread light kisses on the skin there. Fitz sighs. His reactions encourage her. She kisses deeper, spreading kisses from one shoulder to the other, pressing her lips on the sternum and on a little white scar she finds there. Without really noticing it, her hand starts wandering. It moves up and down Fitz’s side.

When she strokes his hipbone, Fitz’s breath falters and she feels him tense up a bit. She stops, looking at his face. His eyes are open now.

“Too much?” She asks.

Fitz shakes his head. “No. It’s alright. Do that again?”

She smiles and slides her thumb over his hipbone again, while kissing his throat.

He hums. But then, he catches her hand and asks, “Jemma?”

“Yes?”

“Do you … Uh … It is …” He stops, groaning in frustration and slapping his hand on the ground once, twice. Jemma just waits. “Is there something you miss? I mean … Are we going too slow? I … It’s …”

She gets what he’s trying to ask. She looks from his worried eyes down to where he is obviously at least half hard. His boxers are still wet and she can see the outline of his cock. Which makes her lips feel dry. She thinks for a moment.

As always, going for the truth is the better decision, she thinks. “Well. Yes. There are things I’d like to do with you. I’ve been thinking about it. A lot to be honest. It’s not the most important thing in the world. But …” Oh screw it, she thinks. Lets stop talking around and just say the word. “I’d very much like to have sex with you.”

Fitz winces. He shifts until he can sit up and looks at her with something like regret and sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She frowns and shakes her head, quickly sitting up too and reaching for his hand. “Fitz no, don’t apologize. We have never really talked about it. It’s just … I started to think about it a few weeks ago and … What about you? Would you like to have sex with me?”

Fitz swallows. He shies away from her eyes, but after a moment, he nods carefully. “I … I thought about it,” he says huskily. “I even dreamt about it once. It’s just … I have no idea and I have never … I only read about it, heard about it and … I don’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Oh Fitz. You don’t need to worry. I have no experience at all, too. Don’t forget that! But you know, there’s a lot we could do that isn’t, um, penetrative sex. It’s not the only way to have sex. We could just … Well, explore and test what we like and don’t. We don’t even have to do the penetrative thing, if you don’t want to. Or maybe I don’t want to. I just want to say, there are enough ways to be close and pleasure each other and have orgasms.”

When she stops talking, Fitz’s face is very red. But he nods and hums, still not quite looking at her. “I guess I’m just nervous … I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“You don’t have to be nervous. Like I said, we both have no experience. I think it’s important that we don’t stress about it. It shouldn’t be stressful. It should be … fun, I guess? Yes. Fun.”

Fitz smiles weakly and finally looks at her. “Well then, everything I do with you is fun, so …”

Jemma chuckles and stretches to kiss his forehead. “You know,” she says, squeezing his hand. “My mother got tickets for a musical. She and my father will be gone from Friday to Monday. We will be alone.”

“Oh,” Fitz makes. Then, his eyes widen and he repeats, “_Oh_.” He swallows.

“Yes. Oh,” Jemma smiles and lays back on the blanket again, looking up at the sky. “But don’t worry. We are going to talk before we do anything. We have to make sure we both know we can always say if something isn’t ok, if something is too much …” She yawns and feels her eyes fluttering shut. “Oh. I think I’m about to fall asleep,” she mumbles.

Fitz lays down beside her. “Same. I’m so tired suddenly.”

“Let’s just take a nap. We have time,” Jemma says. She lays her head on Fitz’s chest and closes her eyes. Her body is exhausted and the noises around her, the soft gushing of the wind, the singing of the birds, is lulling her to sleep quickly.

* * *

  
When Jemma wakes up, the sun moved behind some clouds. It’s fresher now, and she shivers a bit. She sits up and softly shakes Fitz, who seems to be half asleep still. He makes a reluctant noise, but opens his eyes. “What?” He asks confused. Jemma laughs. “We fell asleep. I think it’s quite late now.” She looks at their baskets and groans. “We haven’t even eaten anything yet! My mother will get mad if we don’t at least devour the cake. I think she’s scared we’re too thin. Let’s eat something and then go home, alright?”

Fitz nods and stretches. His hair is dishevelled and there are a few culms caught in his curls. Jemma chuckles and picks them out, while Fitz is putting his socks and shoes back on.

They manage to eat the cake and some of the fruit salad. When they pack their things, Jemma looks up and sees a deer on the other side of the lake. She gasps. The deer stands stock-still, dark eyes staring at them. “Oh,” Fitz makes quietly. “Wow.” “Yes,” Jemma whispers in awe. The animal is beautiful. It has impressive antlers. Jemma guesses it’s a rather old deer. After staring at them for another minute, it eventually disappears in the bushes without hurry. Jemma and Fitz look at each other and smile.

The forest is a wonderful place, with adventures waiting around every corner, Jemma thinks. Someday, she really would like to live on the countryside. Just to be able to see animals every day.

When they are ready, they walk to the little path leading them back into the forest, holding hands. The trees throw huger shadows now. They see a few squirrels and a mouse, which is hurriedly running over the path.

Soon, they reach the broader farm way that would bring them back to the cottage.

In the distance, they can already see the fields with the sheep. They look like little white clouds.

When they walk past a barn, there’s suddenly loud barking. A dog jumps towards them. It looks like a Labrador mix. Its big ears are hanging and the fur is a lovely marble mix of light brown, black and white spots.

First, Jemma winces in surprise, but she laughs, when the dog starts to jump around them, its tongue hanging out, tail wagging wildly. The animal looks kind of goofy. It smells Jemma’s hand, bumping her with a very cold wet nose, then does the same with Fitz and barks again. Fitz scratches the dog’s head, and it presses against his legs, making a satisfied noise. But the next moment, it begins to jump around them again, barking and wagging its tail. 

Eventually, a man steps out the barn, shaking his head and reaching for the dog’s collar, “Oh Barney, shush it! Excuse me, he’s a bit loud and not exactly polite, but not dangerous, I promise!” Barney makes a protesting noise and sits down on the man’s shoe, panting. It looks like he’s grinning. The strange man shakes his head and bends down to pat Barney’s head.

Jemma smiles, still not able to avert her gaze from the lovely dog. “It’s alright.”

She looks at Fitz and frowns. He’s standing stock-still, staring at the man, his eyes wide and his mouth forming a surprised oh. He looks like he has just seen a ghost. “Fitz?” She asks worriedly.

He doesn’t even react. He stares at the man and finally says slowly, “Radcliffe? Holden Radcliffe?”

The man frowns and straightens up. He looks Fitz up and down once, his eyes showing no recognition. “Do I know you?” He asks confused.

Fitz shifts his weight and nervously raises his hand to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. „Leopold Fitz,” he says, his voice trembling. Jemma notices how tense he is. His hands are clenched into tight fists and his shoulders are hunched up. Jemma lays a hand on his back, her stomach clenching in worry.

Fitz obviously knows this man from his past. And by now she can’t say, if his memories are good or bad. A man named Radcliffe never appeared in his stories. The only thing she knows for sure, is that they are agitating him.

The stranger – Radcliffe? – now makes a surprised noise and rubs the back of his head. “Well. What an unexpected surprise,” he states, suddenly looking nervous. "My, how many years have passed? Look at you, all grown up," he adds, a tentative half-smile spreading on his face.

Fitz doesn't smile.

Jemma takes his hand and squeezes softly.

Barney looks between them all and barks happily.


	4. Fitz / Jemma / Radcliffe

[Fitz]

_The world is such a small place._

Fitz heard that in some song. And now, it seems like the line is true. He’s in the countryside of Ashburton, England, staring at a ghost of the past.

It’s not pleasant. It feels like a kick in the guts.

A dozen memories rain down on him. Vague and blurred. But he vividly recalls a photograph, standing on the mantle. Martha and Alistair Fitz, standing side by side in their wedding clothes. Radcliffe behind them, one hand on Martha’s shoulder, his face wearing the same tentative half-smile as now. He has been seeing that picture for years and now it’s burned into his mind.

Fitz shivers involuntarily.

Jemma moves closer to him, until their shoulders brush against each other. He’s grateful for her warm presence.

Radcliffe is wringing his hands, looking from Fitz to Jemma and back. He looks nervous. “Well. This is a great surprise,” he repeats. “Do you want to come inside?”

No. Not really. Fitz would rather run away. Like he ran away from his past for a long time, trying to get rid of everything, trying to bury it. But … It didn’t work. Facing his fears had turned out to be a better and more effective strategy. So, he nods curtly.

Radcliffe smiles carefully. “Alright. Great. And … I don’t think I know your name?” He asks Jemma, reaching out his hand.

“Jemma Simmons,” she says, shaking it. 

Radcliffe’s eyes widen. “My … Another surprise. I know Frank Simmons. The little grey cottage behind the forest, right?”

Jemma frowns. “Yes. Though I think my father didn’t mention you.”

“Oh well, only helped him once, when his horses caught an infectious disease. I studied veterinary medicine. Among … other things.”

Jemma’s face brightens up. “Oh. Fascinating!”

“Yes, yes. It is. But I’m not practising anymore … Now. Please come in.” Radcliffe squints up to the sky. “Looks like it might start to rain again soon.”

He makes a vague gesture towards the little farmhouse beside the barn, scratching the head of his back and shooting Fitz another nervous glance.

They follow him inside slowly, accompanied by a happily barking Barney.

Fitz's anxiety level is rising up with every second. 

This feels surreal.

Ghosts from the past should remain ghosts, Fitz thinks, feeling already dead exhausted.

* * *

The house is small but cozy.

There are a lot of pictures on the wall. Realistic paintings of the landscapes around Ashburton. Forests, fields and a lake. But there’s also a stunning portrait of Barney.

Fitz and Jemma sit down on a grey couch.

Barney lays down on a fuzzy blue blanket and watches them with his head on his paws.

“Can I offer you something? Tea, water … Or coffee?” Radcliffe asks them, wringing his hands again.

Fitz can’t get himself to speak, but Jemma says, “Tea would be nice,” with a little polite smile. She reaches over, to take Fitz’s hand, her thumb stroking the skin between his thumb and forefinger. A soothing touch. “Thank you," she adds. 

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” Radcliffe says, obviously relieved, and storms off into the kitchen. They hear some clanking sounds and water being poured.

Fitz shifts nervously, letting his gaze wander over a set of colourful model birds on the windowsill. They are made of stone. He frowns. His mother loved those. Had a lot of them. As far as he knows, they ended in a box in the cellar. Didn’t he actually pull them out, once when he was locked in there? Searching for something comforting. Something that would remind him of his mother … He shivers violently and feels a first hint of familiar nausea rising up in his throat. 

“Alright?” Jemma asks quietly, looking at him concerned.

“Uh. Yeah. It’s just … this is strange.”

She nods, biting her lip. “You know him? Were you two … close?”

Fitz shakes his head. “Not … not really. He was a friend of Alistair.”

“Ah.” Jemma looks like she’s not sure what to make of this information. Fitz isn’t sure himself.

Radcliffe comes back balancing a tray, putting two steaming mugs on the table in front of them. “Here you go. I hope you like your tea with cream.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jemma says.

“You’re welcome. So … What brings you to this no man’s land?” He asks, chuckling and sitting down, reaching for his own mug.

“We’re on vacation. Visiting my parents," Jemma explains. 

“I see. So ... You didn’t want to stay in Glasgow, Leo?”

Fitz flinches violently. The name. The mention of the town. There’s no way he’s getting out of this without going crazy, no way … _Oh bloody hell, get yourself together_, he tells himself sternly. He takes a deep breath. “No. Uh. Please call me Fitz. I go by Fitz now,” he says, as calm as possible, swallowing the nausea down.

Radcliffe looks a bit surprised but shrugs. “Alright. So, you had enough of the big city, didn’t you? Just like me …”

“I …” Fitz bites his lip. He rubs his knees anxiously. How much does he want to tell Radcliffe? How much does the man know? Apparently not much, otherwise he would know why Fitz left Glasgow.

He doesn’t get to say anything else, though, because Radcliffe suddenly looks, like he remembered something and raises a finger. “Actually, it really is a remarkable coincidence that we met here today. I talked to your father just a few weeks ago, when I visited someone in Glasgow.”

Fitz freezes. A faint ringing starts in his ears as he tries to process what he just heard. “What?” He breathes.

Jemma beside him exhales sharply and squeezes his hand.

Radcliffe nods. “Yes, incredible, right? He asked me if I knew where you are.” He frowns. “Which is strange. Is it that long ago that you two talked to each other?”

Fitz feels like every bit of air left his lungs and they are too tight to take another lungful. Every cell of his body fills with cold. No. No that can’t be. No. “But … but he’s su-supposed to be in prison,” he says, annoyance joining his horror and disbelief, as his stutter returns.

Radcliffe looks rather alarmed now. “Prison? Why should Alistair be in prison?”

He knows nothing. He actually knows nothing at all about what his so-called friend did.

“He’s out.” Fitz feels like the ground has disappeared under his feet. He’s falling. And there’s no bottom … The ringing in his ears intensifies until it’s sharp and persistent. God … “He really is out.”

“Fitz,” Jemma says worriedly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Fitz shakes his head. He can’t form words. It’s getting too hard to breathe. Cold sweat on his skin. _He’s out …_ He drops his mug and it drops to the wooden floor, shattering into pieces. Everyone winces. A sharp memory flashes through him. Glass shards on the floor, his father yelling …

The past hits him with full force. The past and the present. They combine and suffocate him.

_He’s out of prison. He’s out. He can find me. He can …_ He gasps and presses a hand against his throbbing forehead. Blurry images … He’s ten and he’s hiding in a wardrobe, because his father is drunk and angry and … he’s searching for him, yelling insults. He’s pressing himself against the cold clothes and whimpers, wishing himself away. Why can’t his mother be there? Why can’t he be with her … Why …

The world sways. Fitz almost slips from the couch, as he’s trying to get his breathing back under control and to shove the memories back into a more distant corner of his mind.

He hears Jemma calling out his name and Radcliffe’s worried murmurs. Radcliffe. Who stood beside Alistair on that photo, his hand on his mother’s shoulder. Radcliffe, who talked to Alistair just a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago.

A few weeks …

His lungs burn.

“Fitz! Fitz, breathe!” Jemma calls beside him, her voice sounding as if coming from a great distance.

He’s trying. But his lungs can’t seem to keep the air in. He’s taking painful gasps and clutches at his chest.

Then, someone kneels in front of him, laying heavy hands on his shoulders. Heavy enough, to get him back to reality a bit more. “Come on, boy,” a voice says. Radcliffe … “Come on, breathe with me. It’s alright. You’re safe. I’m counting, yeah? One …”

He takes a huge breath and Fitz tries to follow him. It doesn’t work immediately, but Radcliffe encourages him again, and Jemma’s hand is on his back, her breath warm on his neck, and he finally manages to get his breath into a rhythm again, the pain fading.

“That’s it,” Radcliffe says softly, his hands still on Fitz’s shoulders, squeezing a bit. “That’s it …”

It gets better. He’s handed a glass of water from somewhere, and Fitz gulps it down all at once. He leans back against the couch heavily and sighs. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You have nothing to apologize for, but … What is this all about?” Radcliffe asks, sounding utterly confused.

“You really have no idea,” Fitz murmurs. Radcliffe shakes his head.

Fitz looks at Jemma. “Tell him.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Fitz …”

“No. Just … Tell him. I trust you with it. I – I need a, um, a break. I’ll just go …” He makes a vague gesture towards the garden in front of the farmhouse.

“Okay,” Jemma says quietly. Her fingers brush his arm.

Radcliffe looks at him with a combination of confusion and worry in his eyes.

Fitz turns away. He needs to … needs to get away. Just for a moment. It’s too much.

He stumbles out of the room, towards the exit and goes outside. For a moment, he just inhales the crispy chilly air. He discovers a bench in the sun and goes to it, sinking on it heavily. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He wants to think nothing … Nothing at all.

After a while, Barney approaches. The dog looks at him, one of his ears raised and tilts his head. Fitz smiles and scratches the dog’s head, feeling a bit better.

[Jemma]

While Radcliffe is cleaning the floor, Jemma looks at Fitz through the window, worrying her lip. He sits with his back to the house and his whole posture is slumped. She sees that Barney is sitting beside him, his head laying on Fitz’s thigh. At least he has good company, she thinks, smiling sadly.

Radcliffe sits opposite of her, a lot of questions in his eyes. “My … I really didn’t expect this reaction. Nor did I know that Alistair was in prison. I … I missed a lot, apparently.”

Jemma sighs. “You actually have no idea what he’s been through, do you? Although you knew his parents?”

Radcliffe takes a sip of his tea – by now long cold – and shakes his head. “Well. I know his mother died. I was at the funeral.” A shadow flits over his eyes. “It’s a shame she died. She was … such a wonderful woman. Now … What are you supposed to tell me?” He asked, leaning back slowly. 

Jemma bites her lip. She never feels comfortable to talk for Fitz. He should be allowed to decide what people know and what they don’t. But this time, Fitz asked her to talk about it. So, she does. “I … I make it short. After Fitz’s mother died, his father drank a lot more than he used to. He treated Fitz bad. Really bad. He insulted and beat him. Locked him in a cellar. Depraved him of comfort, doctor care or food. Fitz sometimes had to steal food from the fridge.”

“What? Are you serious?” Radcliffe gasps, his eyes filling with numb shock. “Jesus …”

Jemma nods tightly. “Someday, his father broke his arm and a teacher at school decided to take action. Fitz was taken away from his father. He was raised by a foster dad. A great man, really. He believed in Fitz and convinced him to go studying. But … when he was going to university, Fitz had an accident. He fell off a bridge with his car. Was in a coma for days and when he woke up, he had brain damage. He tried to kill himself and ended up in the psychiatric ward, where I met him.” She stops, her stomach aching painfully.

Radcliffe draws in a deep breath. “This … Is a lot to take in. My God.”

Jemma just nods.

Radcliffe shakes his head. “I … I knew Alistair for years. He was … grumpy for sure. Not a nice guy and certainly not nice enough to his family. I always thought he wasn’t appreciating Martha enough. Nor his son. But this … Christ. If I’d knew I would have …” He stops, biting his lip.

“You’d what?” Jemma asks, frowning.

“Well. Guess I’d tried to take him with me. Which wouldn’t have been working, of course. But maybe Alistair wouldn’t even have cared, who knows? He was always so blind about his family. Failed to notice how smart his boy his, and how beautiful his wife … “ He stops, the expression on his face changing as he notices he might have said too much.

Jemma frowns. She starts to feel a strange kind of suspicion. “You were close to her?”

Radcliff blinks and laughs, shaking his head. “Oh. No. Not really. Well, I sometimes came to help her with some things. Alistair was always busy, when he still had his job. Uh.” He scratches the back of his head and the suspicion intensifies.

“Why did _you_ leave Glasgow?” Jemma asks.

Radcliffe takes a sip of his tea. His brows furrow. He looks like he’s thinking. When his answer comes, it sounds quite prepared.

“I’d had enough of the big city life. I needed something more remote. I had enough money from my job, which I quitted. I searched for a nice little house and found this farm instead. I met Agnes …”

“Agnes?”

“My wife.”

“Oh. Where …”

“She died. Just two years ago. It was brain cancer.”

Jemma swallows. He lost someone to cancer too. That’s cruel. “I’m sorry.”

Radcliffe nods and smiles weakly. “Yeah. Well. We had some good years here. Now … It’s only me and Barney now.” He takes another sip of his tea and sighs.

Jemma watches him and thinks, he is a good man. The way, he helped Fitz out of his panic attack and the way he was talking … Still. He seems to hide something.

It’s slowly getting dark outside. Jemma figures her parents are going to be worried soon. Fitz is still sitting on the bench, Barney laying beside him. “We should leave,” Jemma tells Radcliffe, who looks lost in his thoughts. He winces and nods, getting up with a groan. “Sure. It’s getting late. Shall I … Come out? Say goodbye to, Leo – er, Fitz?”

Jemma thinks, but then shakes her head. “I think right now, it would be better if you didn’t.” It would only stress him out again.

Radcliffe nods. “Alright. Just … Please tell him I’m sorry. I didn’t know. And … He, you – you can always come here, if you want to. For tea. I don’t mind the company.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says, smiling.

  
When she goes to Fitz, he turns his head to look at her. He looks tired. “Do we leave?”

“Yes. You’re alright?”

“Hmm. I’m better. Barney helped,” he says, patting the dog’s head again. Barney whines once. It sounds sleepy.

“Come on,” Jemma says, taking Fitz’s hand. He gets up slowly, as if he’s in pain. Fortunately, Jemma thinks, it’s not a long walk.

[Radcliffe]

He watches after them, until they disappear around a corner. There’s a sour taste in his throat. After a moment, he goes to get his Scotch. He really needs it right now. Too many coincidences and shocking revelations for one day.

Leo Fitz. What a coincidence. It’s been so long. Now he knows so much more about the boy he has just seen a few times, before Martha died. Things he’d never wanted to know.

God.

Martha … He hasn’t thought of her for so long. At least, he tried. Now, everything’s back. And first, Radcliffe smiles in warm remembrance, but then, he starts to feel nauseous.

_I’ve known her_, he’d told them. I’ve known her.

The young woman, Jemma, had looked at him with a certain kind of suspicion. God. She’s smart. Could very well be the smartest young woman he has ever met.

What did cause the suspicion? His voice? His eyes? Did they fill with bittersweet memory?

He takes a sip of Scotch. Enjoys how the liquid burns in his throat. Burns together with the memories.

Martha.

God. That was thirty years ago. They were young. Lonely. Disappointed. Unhappy. Yet … It was wrong. It was so wrong.

He’s still sorry.

Agnes knew about it. Of course, she did. He told her everything. She didn’t judge. “It happened,” she said. “You can’t make it unhappen.”

And oh yes, how it happened.

Radcliffe saw Martha, and it was like someone switched the sun on inside his chest.

The memories in his mind are crystal clear ...

* * *

  
It was a rainy day in Glasgow.

When Holden came out of the library, where he’d spent hours, he practically stumbled over Alistair Fitz. They had gone to school together. Were in the same class and shared almost the same way home. Despite that, Holden would never call them close friends. It was more like a “Hey, want to meet at the pub? Want to hear about my shitty colleagues who get all the recognition? Want to hear about my newest idea no one appreciates enough because they’re all too stupid?”- kind of relationship. Just occasional nights of drinking and talking. Most of it forgotten the next morning.

That day, Alistair had a woman with him. Curly dark hair, hazelnut eyes, lovely freckles spread all over her face and a bright smile. She was beautiful.

“This is my fiancé,” Alistair grumbled, obviously not looking forward to do small talk. He tended to be clumsy outside of their pub-nights.

“Martha,” the woman said, reaching out a hand.

“Holden Radcliffe. It’s my pleasure.” He took her hand and kissed it. 

She laughed. Surprised and amused.

Alistair glanced at them, looking confused and sullen.

* * *

* * *

Holden was invited to the wedding.

It wasn’t like the weddings he used to visit. It was formal and stern, everyone being serious instead of cheerful and loud. Slow dramatic music played. It wasn’t a music to dance to and Holden thought he caught a lot of “God is the greatest”- lines. He knew Alistair’s parents were strict Catholics. Holden himself hasn’t entered a church in years. He felt a bit uncomfortable.

But when he looked at Martha, who always stood near Alistair, and studied her tense posture, he thought he might not be alone. 

He quickly figured out, that this wasn’t a wedding taking place after yearlong exploration of each other, of desires, wishes or dreams. It seemed more like an agreement between two families. An arrangement. That made him pretty sad.

Thankfully, it was over soon.

After the vows were exchanged, Holden stumbled over Martha in front of the guest rooms. She looked … strange. A bit lost and like she had tried not to cry. “Are you alright?” Holden asked, concerned.

“Yes. Yes of course. Just … a bit tired.” She sat down on a chair, wiping at her forehead and smiling at him nervously.

Holden tried hard not to focus on how even this small smile made him feel like he could fly. Instead, he gave his best to be a distraction. “Are you from Glasgow, Martha?”

“Oh. No. No, I’m not. I’m … from a very small village in the middle of nowhere,” she said, laughing. “My parents own a farm. They always hoped I would be lucky and find a man from the city. A wealthy man.” The words came out a bit bitter.

Holden nodded. “Ah. And … What are your plans for the future?”

She looked at him a bit confused. “Well. It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? There’s a household to take care for. But …” She bit her lip, looking as if she isn’t sure she should take this further. But finally, she smiles and says, “I always wanted to be a florist. I love flowers. I love how you can express different moods with putting flowers of different colours together. My parents didn’t pay for the apprenticeship though.”

“You could still do it. Find a job, earn the money. Then do the apprenticeship,” Holden told her. “I would love to buy flowers from you. I’m sure, you’re making the most wonderful bouquets.”

“Thank you,” she said, gently touching his shoulder.

It felt like he’d touched the sun.

A while later, a long while, she started to work in a flower shop for a few hours in the week. Alistair told him at a pub. Holden thought it didn’t seem like he was approving what his wife was doing there. It sounded more like Alistair had given in to have peace and silence.

Holden visited her from time to time. She always smiled at him and he always bought a rose – a different colour every time – just to give it to her as soon as he handed the money over.

She always laughed about it, calling him an idiot.

When her shift was over, he accompanied her home and they were talking. Martha seemed happy to have someone to talk about. Her past, her dreams, her worries about city life. And Holden slowly but surely noticed, that he was spending more time with her, than with Alistair. Maybe, it was worrisome, but at this time, he didn’t care.

  
Those were his favourite days and he just tried to enjoy them.

* * *

* * *

  
Once, when Holden came to pick up Alistair, he wasn’t there. Martha opened the door instead.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. She was wearing a lovely yellow dress with flowers printed on it. Holden tried his best to not notice how it made her eyes brighter and failed. “Alistair isn’t here. He had to stay at work longer.” A shadow flitted over her face. So volatile. Barely even noticeable. Yet, he saw it.

“Oh. Well. I’m going to try another time, then,” Holden said, smiling at her.

Martha smiled back. “Yes …”

It was time for him to turn around and leave, and for her to close the door. But they didn’t do anything of that.

Instead, they lingered there, he outside and she half-inside, her hand stroking her hair back that floated in the wind.

It was like they were waiting for something.

“Do you want a tea before you go?” Martha finally said. She looked up to the sky and scrunched her nose up. It looked lovely. “It looks like it might rain soon.”

It didn’t. Not really. But Holden said yes anyway, somehow feeling relieved.

The tea was nice. Exactly how he liked it. Not too sweet, not too bitter. They drank it at the table, staring at everything but at each other.

“Are you alright?” Holden eventually asked.

Martha shrugged and smiled softly. “Yes … I think so. You?”

Holden laughed and shrugged. “Kind of lonely.” He was almost shocked about the revelation. But it was true. He felt alone when he was in his small apartment, after work. Felt alone with his Scotch.

First, Martha looked shocked and surprised. But then, something like understanding entered her eyes. She sipped her tea and hummed. “I think … I’m kind of lonely too.”

“Oh.”

Holden looked at her. Looked really at her. Saw a faint shadow under her eyes. An angry vein pulsing on her forehead.

_Are you happy_, he wanted to ask. _Are you happy with him? _

Could she be happy? With Alistair, who talked about his ideas all the time, but almost never said a word about his wife? Who, if he even talked about her and their domestic life, sounded exaggerated and annoyed the best? Who made no secret out of his beliefs, that a good wife was one that stayed at home the whole day, doing the household and accurately preparing his meals?

Was this the life she wanted to live?

Being in the house, doing his laundry and making his food, being shown around in the city every now and then? Living with the knowledge that his and her parents longed for as many grandchildren as possible? Being granted only a few hours of working at the flower shop, of doing what she loved?

He wanted to ask. But he couldn’t.

However, the silence between them didn’t feel uncomfortable. Their eyes locked and she smiled at him. Her smile was quicksilver.

With a hint of dizzy horror, Holden realized he was about to fall in love.

Oh. Oh God.

_I have to go_, he realized, feeling embarrassed and shocked about himself. _I’m not doing such things. I’m not this man. I’m …_

Every thought died in his head, when Martha slowly reached out, brushing her fingers against his almost shyly.

_Oh. _

They looked at their hands on the table, then smiled at each other again. Holden felt dizzy. His heart seemed to jump loops inside his chest. _I would cherish you_, he thought absently. _I would buy you a flower shop for yourself. I would …_

Martha took his hand. He let her.

She got up and pulled him with her. He let her.

She led him. Led him towards the sleeping room. And he let her.

The light inside was dim, the curtains closed. Dust motes fluttering around. The bed was big. Empty. The bedsheets flat and ready to embrace them.

They looked at each other, and Holden saw the hesitance, the knowledge that this was wrong, wrong, wrong – reflected in her warm honey-golden eyes.

But the knowledge didn’t stop them.

She leaned forward and pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart was beating. He let her.

They leaned forward at the same time. When their lips met, it was like an electric shock.

She undressed. He did too.

They looked at each other silently, knowing it took one more step.

And they took it together.

Afterwards, she opened every window in the room and he watched her from the bed. Watched her body moving around softly like honey.

He felt panic rising up, making his throat tighten. “Martha … I’m sorry, I …”

She came to him and laid a finger on his lips. “No. Don’t. Just … It’s done. There’s no use mourning it now.”

He shook his head. “I’m not mourning it. I … really like you.”

A shadow flit over her face. She bit her lip. “I like you too. But we can’t do this again.”

“No. Of course not. Martha?”

“Yes, Holden?”

“What … Why did you do it?”

“I wanted us to feel less lonely.”

“Oh.” He watched her sitting on the bed, slowly dressing herself again. Thoughts racing in his head. Stupid thoughts. But yet … “You know, what we could do? We don’t have to stay. We could …”

“What? Pack our bags and leave? Disappearing somewhere into the highlands where no one is going to find us?” Her voice suddenly dripped with sarcasm. It burned his soul like it was poison.

He shrugged, smiling crookedly. “Well. Why not?”

She froze. “Holden. This isn’t one of these corny love stories you like to read. It’s reality.”

And what a cruel reality it was, he thought. She deserved to be appreciated. To be what she wanted to be and to act like she felt like. She deserved to be happy. He wanted to tell her. But what would it change?

Nothing.

She was right.

This was reality. They had a place in this story. It was already set. It took too much to change it.

* * *

* * *

Holden still visited Martha in the flower shop. She looked at him different now. He didn’t like it, but he guessed that was the prize for what they did.

He still went to the pub with Alistair and could look him in the eye, despite of fearing he couldn’t even talk to him ever again. Maybe, he thought grimly, while Alistair dragged about someone who dared to make his coffee wrong, it was because he actually was repulsed by Alistair and how he acted like Martha was nothing but a shadow. Maybe.

One day, when Holden came into the flower shop, Martha acted strange. She never stood still, pacing and hectically arranging flowers she had done just a second ago.

Eventually, Holden reached out to touch her shoulder, asking her what was wrong.

She batted his hand away. Firmly.

Holden frowned. “What …”

“I’m pregnant,” Martha blurted out.

“Oh.” His stomach dropped. He sat down heavily, staring up at her. She stared back, her lips a grim thin line. She wrapped her arms around herself. A defensive gesture.

Holden cleared his throat. It was dry. As if filled with desert sand. A thought was burning in his chest. A question. A strange kind of terrified yet hopeful premonition. “Is it …”

“It’s not yours,” Martha snapped before he could even finish his question, her voice firm.

“Are you sure?”

For a little moment, so volatile he couldn’t be sure later, it was even there, he thought he saw uncertainty in her eyes. Frightened uncertainty. But it was gone so quick … Replaced by forced calmness. “I’m sure. We have to stop doing this Holden. For good. You … Don’t come here anymore.”

Oh it hurt. It hurt to hear these words. But of course, they were true. They were always true. What they have been doing wasn’t right.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Holden didn’t even know for what he was apologizing. But Martha nodded anyway, avoiding his eyes.

Holden cleared his throat. “Do you need anything? I could …”

“I need you to leave me alone!” She called out surprisingly loud, turning away.

“I … Alright.” Holden sighed and got up, walking to the door slowly. He looked back one more time.

Martha stood at the window, still hugging herself. She looked vulnerable.

“Goodbye, Martha,” Holden said quietly.

She didn’t answer.

He closed the door.

  
When Alistair called him the next time, asking him to meet him at the pub because he had big news, Holden told him he didn’t feel fine. He even simulated a cough and a raspy voice. A cold, he said with regret. Didn’t want to infect you. Alistair grumbled an alright. Later. Holden cut the call, feeling relieved and hurt at the same time. He couldn’t do this. Not today.

He sat at home, taking huge sips of Scotch. The thought was still racing in his restless mind.

_It could be mine. It could be. _

But Martha seemed so sure … And it was only one time. No. It didn’t work like that. It was Alistair’s child for sure. And he had stained what they had …

_What they have is nothing but an act, _a spiteful voice whispered inside his head_. You know she isn’t happy. You know she feels like a shadow. Like a display model often enough. What they have isn’t love. _

Holden cut the voice off with more Scotch.

_I have to disappear from their life. _

After that evening, he found new excuses every time Alistair contacted him.

* * *

* * *

He didn’t disappear. Not fully. Glasgow wasn’t as big as one might think. He stumbled over Martha two more times before the baby was born.

Once, when she was visibly pregnant, buying some tiny clothes in green and yellow. Her favourite colours …

“Martha,” he said surprised, stepping behind her when she inspected striped socks. She winced.

“Holden,” she said, turned around and immediately wrapped her arms around her waist in that defensive gesture. “How are you?”

Platitudes …

Holden shrugged. “Fine. Boy or girl?”

Martha sighed. But her eyes softened, and she stroked over her belly once. “A boy.”

Holden nodded. “Do you have a name yet?”

She shook her head and laid back the socks, her gaze hardening again. “I’m done here. Goodbye, Holden.”

“Goodbye,” he said, watching her storming off, regret burning in his chest.

  
Another time, he walked past the flower shop, right when she left it. She moved very slowly, a hand on her baby belly.

She didn’t look happy to see him. But at least, she smiled weakly.

This time, she had a name. “Leopold. But I already know I’m going to call him Leo more often.”

Holden made an amused noise. “Alistair chose it, didn’t he?”

Her lips twitched. “Yes.” Suddenly, the smile disappeared completely, making place to an exhausted expression. She sighed heavily and leaned against the wall.

Holden frowned. “Martha. What is it? Is everything alright, do you …”

“Everything’s just fine,” she told him firmly. “I’m just tired. It’s not going to take long anymore.”

He nodded. “I miss you.” It slipped out. Just like that.

He heard her inhale sharply. “Don’t do this,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Goodbye, Holden,” she said firmly. A signal. To walk away.

So he did.

* * *

* * *

It seemed like Holden finally disappeared from Martha Fitz’s life completely. The years passed without them meeting each other again. Alistair stopped to contact him too.

But then, on a rainy Sunday in autumn, Martha called him. He was already living in the farmhouse in Ashburton, with Agnes. He was surprised when he heard her say his name. Her voice sounded ashen. “I’m sick, Holden. It’s cancer.”

His hand tightened around the phone so hard, his knuckles turned white. Oh God. Faith was cruel. God she was so young. And … God. The boy. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath and supporting himself on the window sill, his legs suddenly feeling weak. “Martha, I … I’m sorry.”

“They give me six months.”

“Do you need anything?” He asked, an echo from the past. Agnes was watching him with an concerned expression in her eyes. She stopped painting, the hand with the brush hovering above the white paper. Holden closed his eyes.

“No …,” she breathed. But then she added, “Well. Could you … I … It’s Leo, I …” Silence. For long minutes, there was just silence, only interrupted by her breaths. Finally: “No. Never mind. Goodbye Holden.”

The call was cut and he was left to wonder forever, what she was going to say about Leo.

* * *

* * *

Holden wasn’t invited to the funeral. But he knew the date from the newspaper and went there anyway.

He stood aside, watching as they placed the black coffin into the grave, feeling numb and drawn out.

There weren’t a lot of people.

Some might have been these people, who go to every funeral for some reason. Maybe, because life means nothing and they want to be close to death, to learn about it, before they will meet him in person themselves.

He caught sight of Alistair. And the boy. He was standing close to his father, staring at the coffin with hazy eyes.

Holden caught himself staring, trying to find anything that resembled him. But it was undeniable that the boy looked like Alistair. He had his eyes. 

Alistair didn’t look sad. He radiated some strange kind of confused anger. He was moving his jaw, one of his hands clenched into a fist. When he looked up, his and Radcliffe’s eyes met. Alistair stared at him, his eyes ice cold. His brows furrowed.

Holden shivered involuntarily.

_Does he know anything? _

The next moment, Alistair lowered his gaze again.

Radcliffe sighed. His chest burned with regret. When he looked at Alistair now, he could see behind the facades that were Martha’s life for so long. There were shadows under his eyes, more wrinkles around his temples and his hair looked like it was about to thin out already.

Alistair had once been a remarkable man. With smart ideas and sharp quick answers, that made everyone laugh and admire him. But now … Since he lost that job to another one, since he noticed he couldn’t get anything he wanted, he changed. Now he also lost his wife. His wife, who he had never managed to appreciate, to cherish, to built a loving family with. A shame.

Holden threw a glance at the coffin and the boy for one last time, then he turned around, his body feeling too heavy to move.

He couldn’t be a part of their life anymore, he thought. Never again.

He left, before the funeral was over. 

* * *

Radcliffe stares outside, while it is getting darker. The sun lost all of her strength by now, giving up to the darkness of the night.

God.

He feels sick.

If he’d known … He could have done something. Could have prevented a lot of pain and suffering.

He swallows and takes a huge sip of the Scotch.

Barney whines and lays his head on his thigh. Radcliffe smiles weakly and pats his head. He still can’t believe that his past came back to him in just a few weeks. First Alistair on that train, looking drained, like a shadow of himself – and now his son, grown up, holding hands with Frank Simmons’ daughter.

The world is a small place after all.

Radcliff feels the overwhelming urge to seek Alistair and beat him up. He has never been a violent man. But this … It makes his blood boil. What the girl told him … it makes his heart aching. He doesn’t want to imagine the boy he saw at the funeral being beaten or locked in a cellar. But the pictures come anyway, now that his mind knows about it.

Radcliffe closes his eyes and presses a hand against his throbbing head.

What would Fitz think of him if he told him he’d had an affair with his mother? Would he be disgusted? Most certainly. It was better to act like they were nothing more but friends – no, not even that. Just … acquaintances. What would it change anyway, if he – if they – knew? Nothing ...

[Jemma]

  
Fitz is pacing the bedroom, like a tiger in its cage, his teeth gritted, and his hands clenched into fists.

Jemma watches him with concern, shivering slightly in the chilly evening air.

Since they’ve returned, the atmosphere is electric tension. Fitz is erratic and lost in his thoughts. It seems hard to reach him, right now. He’s mumbling to himself now, quiet and barely audible. “I have to … I should make sure they’re alright, I …”

“Alright? Who?” Jemma asks, frowning.

Fitz doesn’t react. He keeps on murmuring, about “Danger … Risk … Why did they let him out!” He raises his hands and pulls at his hair.

Jemma has enough. She gets up, goes to him and lays her hands on his shoulders to get his attention. “Fitz. Listen to me! He can’t do anything to you. You’re an adult and you don’t have to see him ever again, if you don’t want to!”

Fitz finally looks at her, his eyes hazy and filled with fear. “They could be in danger,” he says. And that’s when Jemma gets it. Her stomach clenches. Now that he knows Alistair is out of prison, Fitz isn’t even scared for himself. No. He thinks of the ones he loves. Of course. Because, that _is_ Fitz.

“I don’t think so, Fitz,” she says softly. “I don’t think anyone’s in danger.”

“But … What if … Apparently he’s searching for me? What if he’s going to find Coulson and Robin? What if he’s going to hurt them?”

“I … Fitz how is he supposed to find out. And even if he does, what do you think he’s going to do?”

“You don’t know him. He’s violent. He’s … He’s not sane!”

“But he has just came out of prison. Why should he do anything that brings him right back? I’m sure they’re fine, Fitz. You’re overreacting a bit …”

“I’m _overreacting_?” Fitz calls out, loud. Jemma winces. Fitz’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, an expression of horror and guilt flitting over his face. “Sorry, I … I’m sorry, I didn’t want to yell at you,” he says and drops on the bed, burying his face in his hands.

Jemma bites her lip. She sits beside him and reaches out, to gently touch his shoulder. “No. I get it. You just learned that your fa – that Alistair is out of prison and apparently wants to see you. The man who abused you. It’s … It has to be a lot.”

He nods. “If we hadn’t met Radcliffe, of all people, I wouldn’t have even known he’s out,” he murmurs. “It was … surreal. To see him again.”

“Was he a big part of your life?”

“No. Not at all. I barely have memories involving him. But there was this picture on the wall. Of my parents, Radcliffe standing behind them, his hand on my mother’s shoulder. And I know he was at the funeral. Also one of my stuffed monkeys was a birthday present of him. My mother told me so.”

Jemma hums. She feels a hint of worry. When her suspicion is right … What if Radcliffe had an affair with Fitz’s mother? The way he talked about her, the look in his eyes when he said her name … No. Maybe she's reading too much into this. Maybe he had just a crush on her. After all, they met 30 years ago. They were young, back then. 

She shoves that aside. Right now, she wants to focus on Fitz. She sits down on the bed beside him, reaching out to touch his arm.

“I don’t want to see him,” Fitz says, shivering.

“You don’t have to,” she says, stroking his arm. At least I hope so, she thinks. Just today, they got an example for how small the world sometimes is.

Fitz looks at her from the side. “Could you … Could we hug?”

She smiles at him. “Of course.”

She wraps her arms around him, and he pulls her close firmly, so that there’s almost no space left between them. Their breaths mingle and the warmth their bodies radiate spreads, until it’s consuming them, like a comforting blanket.

Fitz presses against her, his breaths evening out.

Jemma wishes she could make him forget. Forget the world, Alistair, Radcliffe … Everything. But of course, it doesn’t work like that. Never did. All they can do, is being there for each other, when it all gets too much, when the world seems to crush them.


	5. Fitz / Jemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of smut in this chapter (well, more an awkward first time), you don't have to read it to understand the plot :)  
If you don't want to read it, you can stop at "We’re all alone now,” Jemma points out a sudden and exciting thought. Her parents are gone. The house is empty and silent."

[Fitz]

  
Fitz awakes with a gasp, staring into the void. He’s sitting upright in bed. Cold sweat is drying on his skin and he's shivering. For a moment, he’s disoriented, trying to make sense of the sensations around him while the pictures of the nightmare refuse to fade. The echo of pain and fear mingles strangely with the faint smell of freshly cut grass and old wood. It takes a while until he can separate illusion from reality and remembers he’s in Ashburton with Jemma. Jemma … He looks to his side and is relieved to see that she’s still fast asleep, her face calm and her breaths even.

Fitz refuses the urge to cuddle up against her. He doesn’t want to wake her up. Instead, he watches her a while, using her presence as an anchor, holding him here, while his mind is trying to pull him back. Back into the shadows of his mind.

Outside, the colour of the sky is just about to change from the night’s dark blue to the lighter tone of very early morning. A glimpse of red on the horizon, not more than a thin line. Fog lies over everything like a heavy grey blanket. In the distance, there is the first timid chatter of birds.

Fitz sighs and wipes at his burning eyes. He isn’t too surprised about the nightmare. He kind of expected it, after meeting Radcliffe yesterday. After he was practically bombarded with memories. After finding out that the worst demon haunting his mind is free. Free – and searching.

His stomach clenches painfully and he feels a hint of nausea. In his dream, a shadow followed him. Followed him home to everyone he loves. The shadow started hurting them. Fitz had to watch. He was frozen. He couldn't do anything. He could only watch and hear the screaming ...

Fitz shudders and tries to push the images back into his mind. The anxiety is making his throat feel tight. He needs ... distraction. Needs to get out of here ... Fitz sighs and gets out of bed as calm as possible and staggers to the bathroom on weak legs.

He washes his face with cold water for a long time. His head is throbbing in distant pain and he hopes, it doesn't announce a migraine. Supporting himself on the marble sink, he stares at himself in the mirror, willing his breath to calm down.

You’re not a child anymore, he tells himself firmly. He can’t hurt you. He can’t drag you into a cellar or beat you with a belt. And he can't enter your new life, tearing it apart like the old one ...

He tries to sound convincing to himself. But the fear won’t fade.

It's joined by new arriving memories. Blurry images of Alistair, yelling and struggling against a policeman’s grip. His eyes spitting venom, his words filled with serious cold threat.

Fitz grimaces as there’s another stab of pain in the side of his head and goes to rub his temple. Too many unwanted memories try to rise to the surface of his mind. The memories of the trial ... When he was asked to testify against his father. He remembers the scary moment he stood in front of a judge and told him what Alistair did to him, while he felt his raging eyes boring into his back. Coulson was there too fortunately, smiling and nodding at him encouragingly. He pulled strength from this. He remembered back than, that Coulson told him he didn’t deserve any of the things his father called punishment. So he told the people in front of him of the insults and beatings, answered questions to how long he was locked in the cellar, to how often he had to stay outside in the cold when he didn't have a key, because his father didn’t open the door because he was laying on the couch passed out from too much alcohol. He told them so much more ...

They had to stop a few times, because Alistair jumped up from time to time, calling Fitz a filthy liar and a pathetic weakling. 

They told Alistair to stay silent and interrupted the trial to give Fitz a break. He spent these breaks with his face pressed against Coulson’s chest, trying to catch his breath and to not vomit on the floor.

It went on and on. A man who had to be defending Alistair told the judge of how Alistair was impacted by the death of his wife, the sudden responsibility, the losing of his job … It hurt Fitz to listen to this. Everyone looked at him during the speech, pity in their eyes. They treated him like a victim.

And in fact, there, in the court, he slowly started to really understand and believe what he was told by a lot of people lately. That what Alistair did to him was wrong. That he didn’t deserve any of it ...

Alistair was declared guilty in all cases.

“You were so, so brave, Leo,” Coulson told him when it was over, stroking his back. “They’re going to take him away now. You don’t have to go back to him. Never again.” He took Fitz home and he slowly recovered from everything.

Fitz remembers now how Alistair had been screaming while the policemen dragged him away, spit flying from his mouth. “You will regret this, you worthless little piece of shit!”

Without Fitz’s statement, he wouldn’t have gotten such a severe sentence ...

Fitz stares into his own terrified eyes in the mirror and wonders, what keeps Alistair from trying to go and get revenge.

He suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to talk to Coulson. It’s possible he’s already awake. He used to get up very early, to write. The morning hours are perfect for writing, he always said. Perfect if one wants to create a gloomy mood in the web of words. Fitz has always enjoyed Coulson’s writing. Sometimes, he even had the feeling a character was at least partly based on himself.

Fitz sneaks back into the bedroom as quiet as possible, fetching his phone. He decides to make the phone call in the bathroom. There, he won't wake Jemma up, hopefully. When he dials the number, he hopes he doesn’t wake Coulson up. He hopes he isn’t being a nuisance and a weak – Stop, he tells his misbehaving thoughts, feeling irritated with himself. You're not supposed to think like this ...

It's a relief, when he finally hears Coulson's calm voice. “Fitz? Is everything alright?”

Fitz closes his eyes and braces himself against the wall. “Yeah. I … I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yes. Well. I have a bit of a cold; you can probably hear it. My throat has been scratchy all day, but it’s going to pass. Robin’s great though. She has been on her first birthday party. Some girl in school invited her. They went to a swimming pool."

“Good,” Fitz says quietly. “That’s good …” He tries a chuckle, but it sounds more like a half-choked combination of a sob and a groan. His mind is torturing him with new pictures. Pictures of them getting hurt … Getting beaten or strangled by the laughing shadow …

“Fitz?” Coulson asks, sounding concerned. “What’s going on?”

Fitz wipes the sweat of his forehead with a trembling hand and draws in a deep breath. “I … I met someone. Yesterday. Someone I vaguely know from the past. He’s … He was some kind of a, a friend of, of Alistair. And he knew my mother.”

“You met him in Ashburton of all places? That’s an incredible coincidence.”

“Yes. And he told me … He said that … I …” He feels his throat getting tight again. God. He doesn’t want this to be real. Saying it makes it even realer than knowing it. He doesn’t want it to be real and at the same time, starts to feel irritated with himself. Why does he have to get that scared? Why isn’t he better at keeping his emotions under control? Why is he …

_Worthless. Useless. Pathetic, _a spiteful shadow-voice whispers. _Look at you._ _You’re a complete mess and you always will be. _

He shudders and groans, the terror taking his breath away.

“Take a deep breath, son,” Coulson says on the other side, his voice as calm as ever. “Don’t get impatient with yourself. I’m there and not going anywhere.”

He's there, but he’s way too far away, Fitz thinks with a sharp hint of homesickness. He takes some time to breathe, while listening to Coulson’s quieter breaths at the same time. When he finally feels like he’s able to talk again, he closes his eyes and prepares himself to deliver the investable truth. “He told me Alistair is out of prison,” he breathes.

There’s a moment of silence on the other side. Then: “Is he sure about that?” Coulson’s voice is sharper now. 

“Yes. He said he met Alistair when he was in Glasgow and that he asked for me,” Fitz says. “I don’t know what to do,” he adds.

It’s silent again for a moment. When Coulson speaks, his voice is calm again. Soothing. Fitz clings to it like to an anchor. “Okay. Listen. It’s alright. You’re far away from him. You’re grown up and you don’t have to see him ever again, if you don’t want to. He can’t do anything to you, Fitz.”

Fitz wishes, he could easily believe Coulson’s words. But … The memory of the trial, of Alistair’s threats, they won’t fade. “I’m scared he’s going to harm you, once he finds out who you are. That you adopted me. He … Can you remember, how angry he was when I told everyone what he did? What if … if he’s thinking of revenge?”

“That was a long time ago. You don’t know what happened since then. He spent years in prison. As a child abuser. He might not want to get back there. And if he was released from prison now, there surely are some restrictions he has to follow to not have to go back. I’m sure he doesn’t know my name. He can’t know where I am and he surely knows, that he has no claim on you, since you’re an adult now. However, I’m going to ask Maria and Nick, if they have any insight on this, alright? Stay calm and don’t be scared because of us, everything’s going to be fine.”

“Okay,” Fitz says hoarsely. “Thanks, Dad. I’m trying. It’s just … I know him.” He spent years thinking about Alistair Fitz, spent so many therapy sessions talking about him … By now, he thinks he understands Alistair a lot more. He’s violent and impulsive. He wants everyone near him to obey him. And when something doesn’t work out as expected, he thinks the whole world is against him. He doesn’t even think it could be him who’s wrong. The alcohol is only fuel for his fire and Fitz has no doubt he’s going to start drinking again as soon as he can. What is Alistair going to do, without a job, without a family and with the knowledge Fitz and Coulson brought him into prison?

He spends a few minutes more on the phone, telling Coulson about Ashburton and Jemma’s parents. “I miss you two,” he eventually says.

“When you’re back, we can have a garden party,” Coulson suggests lightly. 

Fitz manages a weak smile. “Alright.”

When they finish the call, Fitz feels slightly less terrified, but the feeling of concern nagging at him just won’t disappear.

_Why did they have to let him out? Why did I have to know about it? _

Instead of returning to the bedroom, he decides to get a bit of fresh air.

He sits on a tree stub and sighs. The air around him is misty. The morning is still young. After some silent moments, there is a low meow, and Fitz looks up to see Mr. Mistoffelees walking towards him. Fitz smiles. The reddish cat stretches and yawns, before rubbing his head against Fitz’s legs and letting him stroke his soft fur. “Can you sense what’s going on in my head?” Fitz wonders distantly.

[Jemma]

When Jemma wakes up, Fitz is gone.

She blinks, worry and confusion slowly replacing sleepiness. Usually, Fitz is very slow at getting out of bed. He uses to take his time, turning around now and then, stretching and yawning very much like a cat. Something must have driven him away. But what? A nightmare usually leaves him rather frozen in shock than jumpy.

Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, Jemma thinks and gets up slowly, fighting a short rush of dizziness. She wipes at her eyes and starts to leave the room, to go and search for Fitz.

But when she throws a glance out of the window, she discovers him in the fading fog. He’s sitting on a tree stub and stroking Mr. Mistoffelees. The cat clearly likes him. Whenever he sees Fitz, he comes running, tail raised. Jemma frowns and dresses herself while watching him. Why is he outside? He sits there slumped, his head hanging low.

Is it still because of yesterday’s happenings? She wonders. 

Since they met Radcliffe, Fitz’s been absent and withdrawn. It made Jemma sad, but she gets it. She can’t even imagine how horrible it must be, to know that the man who abused you in so many ways is free, walking around, maybe searching for you. He has to feel sick to his stomach.

Yesterday at lunch, after his outbreak in the bedroom, Fitz rarely ate anything and just picked at his beans, shaking his head when Jemma’s mother encouraged him to eat some more of her homemade pie. Jemma is sure her parents noticed the change in Fitz’s mood. But they didn’t press him to tell them what’s wrong, for which she is grateful.

After lunch, they have prepared to leave, and Jemma’s mother had taken her aside, asking, “Is Fitz alright?”

Jemma considered how much she wanted to say about this. Finally, she said, “He … was reminded of something really unpleasant. He will need a bit time to process it.”

Her mother nodded. She looked at her and Frank’s suitcases then and sighed. “I don’t know … You’re sure you two will be alright all by yourself?”

Jemma smiled at her. “Yes. Enjoy your trip, mum. And the musical, you deserve to have some fun time." They hugged and Jemma involuntarily felt a hint of relief and gratefulness towards her parents. For being there. For always caring. For still caring as much as years before, when she was a little girl. Everything could have been different. It was just coincidence, that she grew up in a loving home, while Fitz was neglected and abused for years. She also thinks of Radcliffe briefly. Of her suspicion. If only the smallest thing had changed, Fitz could have grown up in a different home. How would he have turned out then? At this point, she told herself to stop. It didn’t make sense to think about parallel universes – they only have this one.

Her parents left and she spent the rest of the evening laying beside Fitz in their bed, reading. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. She felt at ease being with him, as usual. Fitz looked at something on his phone but fell asleep early. And now, he’s outside alone, looking like an invisible weight is crushing him.

Jemma goes to the bathroom to wash up, gloomy thoughts already following her despite the day being young.

* * *

“Are you alright?”

Fitz startles a bit at her voice, looking up from Mr. Mistoffelees, who is laying across his lap, purring. When Jemma comes closer, he stares at her out of one half-closed golden eye and yawns. Jemma pats his head and looks at Fitz attentively. “I’ve been a bit worried when you weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. Uh. I had a nightmare," Fitz says quietly, rubbing the back of his head.

Jemma rubs Mr. Mistoffelees’ head with a finger and nods. “You want to talk about it?”

Fitz sighs heavily. “It wasn’t very clear. There were just blurry pictures, of you being hurt. Coulson and Robin being hurt. Everyone I love … Threatened by a shadow, with a familiar voice. When I woke up, I had to … I talked to Coulson on the phone. Told him about what Radcliffe said.”

“Oh. What did Coulson say?”

“That I don’t need to be scared.” Fitz sighs again, his eyes filling with angry desperation. “And … and I want to, but I can’t stop to think about him. I see everything in front of my eyes again. I … I don’t know how to deal with the knowledge he’s out there, Jemma. I … I just want to hide somewhere he can never find me.”

Jemma reaches out to touch his shoulder and shakes her head. “He can’t know you’re here, Fitz. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“Coulson said that too. But … I testified against him in court, you know? I … I told them what he did to me. Everything. He’s been in prison that long because of _me_. If someone’s getting hurt, it’s going to be my fault! I’ll be guilty.” He exhales a heavy breath that almost sounds like a sob.

Jemma’s stomach clenches. Painfully. She rubs Fitz’s shoulder and wishes, she could help him to get lost of every self-depreciating thought he still has. “Oh Fitz. That’s not true. You’re not responsible for his actions. What you did was right! He had to be punished for what he did to you.”

Fitz just shakes his head and grits his teeth. “You didn’t see him back then … Didn’t hear him. When they dragged him out, he told me I’m going to regret it … It’s been so long. But these words … It’s like they’re burned into my mind. I hear them echoing in my head. I don’t want to be, but I’m so bloody scared. Not necessarily for myself. More for the people close to me. I don’t want them to get hurt. I want … I can’t stand the thought of anyone getting hurt, Jemma. It hurts.”

He’s staring up at her with so much pain in his eyes, it makes her own heart ache. She instinctively reaches for him and pulls him into a hug, ignoring Mr. Mistoffelees, who jumps from his lap with a slightly annoyed noise. Fitz lays his forehead on her shoulder and she can feel him tremble. If I could, she thinks, I would take all the heavy baggage you’re carrying around, throwing it away. Maybe into the ocean, where it would sink so far down, none of us will ever have to deal with any of it again.

But there’s no way to take it away. She knows. He knows. There’s only getting better at dealing with it.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz eventually says, and backs away, wiping at his eyes. “I … I just can’t stop the thoughts and emotions coming. And that’s making me angry. And I shouldn’t be angry at myself, I was told often enough, so I get even more angry.” He laughs hollowly. “It’s a vicious circle.”

“Never apologize for what you feel, Fitz. But try not to direct it at yourself,” Jemma says softly, still stroking his shoulder. “You’re not to blame for any of this. You know … I think we both could use a distraction.”

“That’s bloody true,” he murmurs.

She takes his hand and smiles. “What about a short trip to the village? I could show you the library. Oh, it’s a beautiful library Fitz! And we could have lunch in one of those adorable little cafés … Only if you’re up to it of course.”

“Books sound like a lovely distraction,” Fitz says, squeezing her hand lightly and even giving her a small smile.

The weather isn’t too bad today. The fog has mostly lifted, and the sun manages to break through the thin wall of clouds, spending a decent amount of warmth.

Jemma packs two apples, a few biscuits and two bottles of water.

They take the bus. Fitz seems relieved when he can slump on one of the seats. He looks exhausted. Jemma leans against him, offering him one of her earphones. He takes it and she turns on some calm instrumental music. Fitz closes his eyes and looks more relaxed after a while. He lays an arm around her and she enjoys to feel his warmth all around her. It’s soothing. By the time they arrive, she’s almost asleep and Fitz has to shake her shoulder lightly. “We have to get off here, sleepyhead,” he says amused.

Jemma yawns und stumbles out rather clumsily, but when they’re outside, standing on cobblestone, she sees rows of familiar little houses and her mood brightens up. She takes Fitz’s hand and pulls him forward, knowing exactly where to go.

* * *

The library hasn’t changed that much.

Jemma leads Fitz to the books for children.

A few kids sit on the pillows on the floor, books laying in their lap. Their eyes stick to the words and pictures, their fingers already ready to turn the page. Jemma looks at them and smiles as warm memories start to rise up to the surface of her mind.

“I spent so much time here,” she says, running her finger over the colourful book spines, randomly reading familiar titles. She points towards a big window. A pillow lays on the windowsill. “My favourite place. When it was raining, it was heavenly to sit there and read. I did that for hours.” She chuckles. “Everyone always asked why I had so much time. Well. I was finished with my homework in minutes.”

Fitz smiles. “Sounds familiar. I fled to the school library often enough.” He pulls out a book and looks at it. “I didn’t have a lot of books at home. I didn’t want to ask Alistair for more. He wouldn’t have bought me something, anyway. And I didn’t want to bring library books with me, since one time, he took one of them and threw them out in the mud. I was horribly embarrassed when I had to return it. So, I read the same books over and over again. This was one of them.”

“Watership Down,” Jemma says, smiling, although Fitz’s words, which were spoken so matter of factly, stirred sadness in her. “I read that too.”

Fitz hums. “I sometimes imagined doing what they did. Leaving home. Going far away. Somewhere else, somewhere better. But … When you’re a kid, the world is awfully big. And without any money, I wouldn’t have gotten very far. I knew that. I would have been like Fiver without all the other rabbits. Scared and unable to cope.” He shrugs and puts the book back.

Jemma nods and bites her lip. Once again, it’s hitting her, how literally everything in Fitz’s life is bound to the experiences he made in his past. In everything he does, lies a memory to be discovered. She can’t even imagine how he’s managing to go on every day, not succumbing to the weight of the old and new baggage.

They stay a while longer, looking through the building, talking about books they have both read and enjoying the peaceful mood around them. 

Soon, Jemma feels herself growing increasingly hungry. She takes Fitz into one of the cafés, she used to visit with her mother, after a shopping tour. They drink tea and eat Scones with Clotted Cream and Strawberry Jam. Not the healthiest afternoon meal, but well. Sometimes, sweet is the only right choice.

The mood is lighter now. The tea is filling them with pleasant warmth, and the sweetness on their tongues is just as wonderful. They laugh together and find pleasure in being careless for now, looking at each other with love and silent wonder in their eyes. Jemma lays her hand on the table, inviting Fitz to take it. And he does, stroking her skin with his thumb.

Jemma feels happy and finds the same feeling in Fitz’s sparkling eyes.

* * *

A beautiful day ends with a cloudless sky, on which the stars appear quick and clear.

When they stand in their bedroom, Jemma smiles at Fitz and says, “This was a nice day.”

He returns her smile and nods. “Yes,” he says softly. Nothing more.

The following silence between them is heavy. It’s as if it’s carrying something … Something unsaid. They look at each other, smiling nervously, shifting their weight and playing with their hands idly.

“We’re all alone now,” Jemma points out a sudden and exciting thought. Her parents are gone. The house is empty and silent.

Fitz hums. He swallows.

Jemma takes a step forward and lays a hand on Fitz’s chest, looking up, into his wide-open eyes. “Do you remember, when we were talking about taking things further?”

Fitz blushes. He nods carefully. “I do.”

“Well. Why not now?” She asks, feeling her own face getting warm and her stomach flutter like a dozen gentle bees were just released inside of her.

“Now?” Fitz echoes and blinks rapidly. “You … uh, you want to ha-have sex now?”

Jemma chuckles. “Well. Not _sex_ sex. No rush. I just … I thought we could, you know, explore for now. See what we like. Uhm.” God. She sounds like a broken music box …

“Oh. I see,” Fitz says, sounding a bit relieved, but also very nervous. Good. She’s just as nervous about … this. Everything. Of course, she did some research to prepare herself. But research is never like the real thing. Reality is unpredictable. The best prepared experiment could still lack something important because of unexpected external factors …

An experiment!

That’s it.

It’s just an experiment. She looks at Fitz and smiles brightly. “I just had a wonderful idea. We’re going to act like this is a scientific project! Yes, we’re just doing an experiment.”

“An experiment,” Fitz echoes, his voice dry. “Yeah. Al-alright. We’re doing an experiment.”

“Yes. Let’s get naked. For science.” Jemma grins.

Fitz actually chuckles. A light noise, that makes Jemma feel warm inside. The next moment, he gets serious again, nervously plucking at the bottoms of his shirt. “Uh. Are you going first?”

Jemma thinks about it. “Er. Let’s just … Let’s undress simultaneously,” she finally suggests, hoping that will release some of the tension.

She doesn't hesitate another minute and starts with her pants, pulling them off. Fitz first watches her wide-eyed and looking uncertain, but then he hurries, to mimic her. They put their clothes aside on a chair, of course neatly folded. It’s now very silent and Jemma feels, like the air between them would be electrified. She pulls her socks off one by one, watching Fitz doing the same.

They go on like this, mimicking each other, until they’re standing in the middle of the room, in only their underwear. They look at each other and Jemma sees Fitz’s eyes flicker over her body. He swallows and she can see his Adam’s apple bob. For some reason, his reaction makes her feel a lot more confident.

_Let’s do this_ … 

Jemma unbuckles her bra and lays it on the little heap of clothes. Without looking at Fitz, she pulls her panties off. When she straightens up, she fights the sudden urge to wrap her arms around herself. Her heartbeat quickens up. Now she’s completely naked in front of someone for the first time. She shivers slightly in the chilly evening air and feels a hint of self-consciousness, as she sees Fitz staring at her, his eyes wide. She almost wants to cover herself, but then Fitz whispers, “You’re beautiful”, his voice mesmerized.

Jemma feels a wild combination of relief, amusement and giddiness. She tilts her head, saying, “You’re still wearing clothes, this is unfair”, in a playfully accusing voice.

Fitz jumps. “Oh. Yeah. Uh.” He pulls his briefs down, stepping out of them a bit awkwardly. He does wrap his arms around himself, when he straightens up and looks at her nervously. Now they’re both naked. Jemma lets her eyes roam over Fitz’s body. They have seen each other almost-naked before. For example, when they were swimming in the lake. But until now, she hasn’t had the time to look, to see every detail and map it away in her mind. Fitz isn’t as skinny as he was a few months ago anymore. He’s still very slim, but there’s a fine tone of muscles to see. She’s trailing the line of hair down to his hip bones, down to his cock, that seems to be at least half-hard. She can see the veins and asks herself how it is going to be, to touch it, how Fitz is going to react. A wave of heat rushes through her stomach. Desire, she notes vaguely. She's feeling desire for him ...

Jemma looks back up at Fitz’s face, that is bright red. He’s worrying his lip with his teeth and there are questions in his eyes. Not necessarily good questions. He's looking like he wants to hide.

Quickly, to end this situation that’s clearly awkward and tense for them both, she steps forward, closing the gap between them, and wraps her arms around Fitz. He gasps. She snuggles against him and closes her eyes. He’s radiating warmth. His skin is smooth and soft. “Jemma,” he murmurs.

She smiles and kisses him.

She kisses him and at the same time, presses him forward, until he bumps against the edge of the bed. He gets her idea, sitting on the bed and she follows him, without breaking the contact of their lips.

They move together, until they’re laying on their sides, facing each other. They’re both slightly breathless, but still don’t stop kissing. It gets more passionate with every second. It seems like losing control, but it doesn’t scare them. They move in a natural way. Driven by instinct. Kissing is something they’re both familiar with by now. It makes them feel like everything will be alright.

Jemma snuggles against Fitz and makes a surprised noise into his mouth, when she feels his cock against her thigh, this time fully hard and hot. She backs away slightly, to look at it, breathing heavily. Fitz looks at her frowning. “Jemma?” He sounds nervous, and something inside her reminds herself, how easily overwhelmed he’s bound to get.

She smiles at him reassuringly, cupping his face. “You’re alright?”

“Yes, uh, what’s next?” He asks carefully. 

Jemma thinks about it and figures, that it probably makes sense, to go after a certain order. Fitz seems to be more than alright with being given directions, and she doesn’t feel bad about giving them, so … “How about you kiss my neck?” She suggests.

Fitz swallows and nods. She lays on her back, tilts her head and strokes her hair back. The first touch of Fitz’s lips against her throat, is tentative, but it feels very good. Ticklish in an arousing way. She shivers slightly, when he kisses her there again, carefully. “Fitz,” she says softly, because she feels like it.

Fitz immediately stops. He looks at her, frowning. “Shall I stop?” He asks, a hint of alarm in his voice.

“No. Go on please. It feels good.”

Fitz makes a relieved noise. “Oh. Alright.”

He bends down again, growing bolder with the time and nipping at her collar bone, kissing up, along the side of her neck. Jemma sighs and closes her eyes, when Fitz’s kisses get more determined and he starts to find the places that make Jemma shudder again. Soon, she isn't thinking about anything. Not about any threat, not about science, not about doing something wrong, not about what to do next - she's just feeling. It's nice. She hopes, Fitz is feeling like this too. 

“Like this?” Fitz eventually asks after what could have been seconds or hours, sounding a little bit teasing.

Jemma smiles. “Hmm. Just like this.”

By now, she feels almost painfully aroused. Wants to lose herself in this. In them.

When she opens her eyes again, she sees that Fitz might just feel the same. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown, almost drowning out the blue of his iris. She can feel him tremble. “What now?” He asks hoarsely.

Being straightforward worked out before, so she does it again and just verbalizes her desire. “Do you want to touch my boobs?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I can do that.”

He shifts, until he’s on eyelevel with her boobs, looking at them wide-eyed. “They are … very lovely,” he says, grinning. 

Jemma chuckles. “I’m glad you like them.”

Fitz hums and reaches out to cup one of them. “Soft,” he remarks. He experimentally strokes his thumb over the nipple. It creates a little jolt of pleasure and Jemma sighs happily, closing her eyes again. This is way more better than she’d expected. How Fitz careful and considering Fitz touches her, makes her feel all warm inside. “Fitz, I very much enjoy this,” she murmurs.

Fitz doesn’t answer. He just makes a strangely strangled noise. Jemma frowns and opens her eyes, raising her head to look at him. He’s looking at her boobs, but there’s a lost expression in his hazy eyes and he looks like he doesn’t breathe properly. “Too much?” Jemma asks concerned.

Fitz shakes his head, but then backs away slightly. He lays on his back and sighs. “I … No. It’s just … I don’t know.” He crosses his arms. It looks like a defensive gesture. “I’m not much to look at. And you’re …” He blushes.

Jemma chuckles. “Oh Fitz. If you could see through my eyes … I very much enjoy looking at you. I love everything about your body.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He looks less worrisome. Still a bit concerned and unsure, but mostly curious now. And quite turned on. “What do you want to do next?” He asks.

Jemma bites her lip. That’s a good question. She’s still very aroused, the centre of is pulsing between her legs. She really would like to get off. But how is she supposed to ask Fitz to touch her there? Will he? Or is it a step too far and …

“Jemma?”

Oh screw it … “I want you to touch my vagina” she blurts out and then flinches at how formal this sounds. 

Fitz stares at her for a moment, his mouth slightly open. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights and Jemma’s almost sure now he’s going to bolt. But Fitz only asks, “You’re sure? I … I don’t exactly know how … I mean, I know some basics, theoretically, but … Well.”

“I can show you,” Jemma says, relieved he doesn’t seem repulsed or like he wants to run away. She reaches for his hand and he lets her take it. She leads him between her legs, opening them a bit. She advises him to use his index finger, leading him to stroke it through her folds once, letting him feel how wet she is. Fitz inhales sharply, she can feel him breath quickly at her side. The feeling of his finger on her skin alone is heavenly and her arousal rises to a new high. She leads him on, until his finger bumps against her clit and she bites her lip. “Clitoris,” she explains breathlessly. “Rub circles.” He hesitates, then does. It’s too firm and she hisses. He freezes. “Did I do anything wrong?” He asks, sounding concerned and on the brink of shying away. 

“A bit too much pressure,” Jemma explains. “More like this …” She moves her own finger in a natural familiar way, tight circles against the bundle of nerves. Fitz watches her and swallows. “Alright. I … I’ll try.” He moves his finger again, this time gentler. At first, it’s still a bit too much and Jemma squirms at the unfamiliar touch. But he figures it out very quickly, memorizing which kind of movement makes her moan. He takes a moment to run his finger through her folds again, gathering some of the wetness, to make it easier for his finger to glide around her clit. He’s good at this, Jemma realizes with a hint of happy surprised. And he doesn’t seem to mind the procedure at all, his breath is getting even quicker and his eyes are focused on what his hand is doing, his eyes sparkling in a dark shade of blue.

She leans her head back against his shoulder and closes her eyes, allowing herself to just feel. Her orgasm builds up quite quickly, spurred on by this being new and exciting. By the fact, that it’s Fitz who is causing her pleasure.

She can feel that she’s right on the edge, but there’s something missing, and she grows a bit frustrated. “A bit quicker,” she whispers, and Fitz adjusts his movement. “Yes. Like this … Oh.”

She moans when she comes, her pleasure coming in little waves. It’s not an overwhelming orgasm, but it’s nice, and the fact that Fitz caused it, is making it a hundredth times better. Fitz doesn’t stop moving his finger, until Jemma bats his hand away. Fitz looks at her puzzled, but then he realizes. “You came,” he says in an astonished voice.

“Yes, that’s the idea, Fitz,” she says and chuckles. She feels great. High on endorphins.

Fitz looks at his hand like he’s seeing something magical and Jemma has to laugh. He looks at her confused first, but then realizes she’s not laughing about him and smiles. It’s a wonderful smile. One of those that make his eyes sparkle. “Was it … Did you like it?” He asks.

“I liked it very much. And you?”

He chews on his lip and thinks for a moment. “It felt good to see you like this. I would like to do it again," he says. "If you want to,” he adds hurriedly, looking sheepish.

Jemma sits up and kisses his cheek. “I’d love to.” She looks at him, looks down at his cock, that is still hard, and bites her lip. “Fitz, can I touch you too?”

He swallows heavily, nervously playing with his hands. “You’re sure? You're sure you, uh, want to?”

“I want to make you feel good, too. But I won’t touch you, if you don’t want it,” she says.

He seems to think for a second, furrowing his brows. “So far … I liked everything we did. Which is a surprise really. Since it all has to do with physical contact,” he says thoughtfully. “Normally, I don’t even like the idea of getting touched. But … With you, it’s like I don’t have to worry about anything. Everything gets so quiet, when we’re close. My head … My mind. Quiet. I like how I feel when we’re together like this. And … I trust you.” He looks at her, so open and vulnerable, it makes her feel lightheaded. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For trusting me. I trust you too, Fitz.”

He nods. Then, he takes a deep breath, and opens his legs a bit. He reaches for her hand just like she did, and she gives it to him. He squeezes it momentarily, before leading her down until she’s touching his hipbone. Then, he lets go. She looks at him questioningly and he smiles. “I trust you,” Fitz repeats and she takes the word as permission to explore.

Jemma looks at his cock, that seems to have gone the tiniest bit softer since they’ve talked. It’s curved towards his belly and she finds it aesthetically pleasant to look at it, another hint of arousal tickling her from the inside. She hesitates, then touches it with the tip of her finger. Just runs a line around the head. Fitz inhales sharply and his cock twitches. Jemma runs her finger along a visible vein. The skin is smooth, yet hard. She goes on until she reaches the base and, carefully, touches the testicles.

Fitz makes another noise and she looks at him, seeing that his face is a bit tense. He’s biting his lip and his thighs are trembling.

Jemma realizes with a hint of guilt that this has to be tortuous. “Sorry,” she says.

“It’s alright,” Fitz says hoarsely. “But could you … could you do anything?”

“What exactly? Show me, like I did show you,” she suggests, feeling a bit lost. So much for the "preparation"... 

Fitz nods curtly. He takes Jemma’s hand and lays it on his cock. “Wrap your fingers around it,” he says.

Jemma obeys.

“Now apply a bit pressure and stroke up and down – ah,” he ends in a stifled moan, when Jemma does how she’s told, squeezing and experimentally stroking up and down. Fitz gives a full body shudder and exhales a groan. 

“Like this?” Jemma asks and repeats the movement.

Fitz only grunts. She frowns, but figures if he’s lost for words, she has to be doing it right. The thought makes her feel prickly and warm inside. Knowing she’s giving Fitz pleasure feels good. It’s also making her feeling confident.

Still. She feels the urge to make it better for him. She’s never satisfied with only being good. Obviously, this applies to sex as well. She stops her movement for a moment. “Is there something I should do differently? The pressure? Or …”

“Jem-Jemma, what you’re doing … It’s perfect. Please don’t stop,” Fitz says. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. There’s a fine layer of sweat shining on his forehead.

Jemma frowns. “There really is nothing I could do, to make it better? Like … What if I do this?” She twists her wrist on an upstroke. Fitz makes an incoherent noise and thrusts his hips up. Jemma is about to ask if this was a good or bad noise, when she feels him twitch in her hand. He groans loudly and pearly white fluid coats her hand. 

“Oh,” Jemma makes, releasing Fitz and looking at her hand. 

Fitz looks at her with a combination of hazy pleasure and horror in his eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Jemma asks confused.

Fitz grimaces. “The mess …”

Jemma shakes her head and laughs, reaching for the pack of tissues on the nightstand wiping her hand. “What are tissues for? I don’t mind the mess we make. I just … I don’t know. I expected it to last a bit longer.”

Fitz’s face falls instantly. In the next moment, Jemma realizes she just said something a man doesn’t necessarily wants to hear in regard to sex and orgasm. God, we're clueless idiots, she thinks absently and hurries to say, “I didn’t mean it as insult! I was just surprised, I’m sorry!”

Fitz shrugs and looks aside. “I do last longer, when I’m … I’m … you know. When I’m … alone. But you … Well … It was … Uh. So good.” His face turns bright red again.

Jemma laughs. “I’m glad it was good.”

She feels very happy. They got naked, touched each other and both of them got a nice orgasm. She considers it went fairly well for the first time ever. She watches as Fitz yawns and smiles. “How about we clean up and go to bed. I wouldn’t mind a bit cuddling and talking …”

Fitz nods. “Good idea …”

They both spend a reasonable time in the bathroom, before returning to bed, cuddling up against each other.

Outside, it’s raining. The quiet noise of rain drops beating evenly against the windows is quite soothing. Just as Jemma feels like she could doze off any moment, Fitz asks, “So, you really enjoyed what we … did?”

Jemma smiles. “Yes. It was … different than I expected. Better, to be honest. What about you?”

“Same. I was worried I would do something wrong, you know. But you showed me what to do and that was … comforting.”

“So … We’re doing it again, sometime?”

“Hmm. We can.”

“And … Will we do more than that too, eventually?”

Fitz is quiet for a moment, but then he gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she can feel his smile. “Eventually.”

They fall asleep pretty quick after this, holding hands under the blanket. Jemma feels satisfied. The day didn’t start particularly well, but it got better and better, and now she feels happy about them taking a huge step forward. The sex isn’t something that’s supposed to “perfection” their relationship. It’s more like an addition, that makes them both feel good and makes them be really close in just another way than usual. She faces Fitz while falling asleep, and hopes he won’t be pestered by any nightmares this time. “I love you so much,” she whispers, looking at his quiet, peaceful face, and closing her eyes.


	6. Fitz/ Jemma / Radcliffe

[Fitz]

Fitz blinks into the mild morning sunlight that falls into the room. He has woken up just moments ago, feeling well refreshed. The night has been calm. Silent. It’s been one of those nights you wake up from in a pleasantly slow way, remembering nothing specific, neither pieces of a dream nor occasional breaks in sleep. For Fitz, such nights are still rare, and he takes a moment to enjoy the pleasant echo of the good night’s rest.

He turns his head to look at Jemma who is still fast asleep, her face relaxed and her mouth slightly open. Her breaths are even and soft.

Fitz smiles and starts to remember what they did last evening. His heart seems to jump a happy loop in his chest He still can’t quite believe it was real. But it was. They really did that. They had sex. Now, when he tries to remember details, a lot of it is a blur. But the echo of the pleasure, the pleasure of being so close to Jemma, of touching her and being touched in return, is resounding in his heart and mind loud and clear.

It wasn’t as scary or embarrassing or strange as he’d thought it would be when he was thinking about having sex. Since he never really liked being touched or hugged by anyone and quickly gets overwhelmed with smells or noises, he thought it would be almost impossible to have sex without freaking out. And he knows that a few times, he really felt like he was actually about to freak out. He didn’t want to and he fought it, and Jemma helped with being so patient and calm and … Well. With being Jemma.

It felt almost … natural, to do these things with her. He also wouldn’t have thought there would be so much talking involved. He liked that. Jemma giving him directions. He can follow instructions and once he realized what she liked; it wasn’t difficult to keep it up. Focusing on her words and signs of pleasure has really helped him staying in the situation and not drifting away into his own mind. 

Which almost happened a few times because he wasn’t sure if he would be able to make it good enough for her … The doubt is still there. But in case of doubt it helps to focus on facts. And he has a lot of them now.

Fact number one: He didn’t mess it up. He wasn’t bad at it and he didn’t hurt Jemma or caused her to feel bad or disappointed. No. She enjoyed it. She told him so and he could see it in her eyes, in the smile on her face. He could also hear it in the noises she made.

Fact number two: Jemma wants to do it again. If it had been horrible, she wouldn’t have asked if they would repeat it.

Fact number three: He liked it himself.

He turns on his back and smiles. Just because he feels like it. Things are quite … good right now. They don’t have any work to do for a couple of more weeks, the weather is still nice even if summer is slowly but surely saying goodbye, Jemma’s parents seem to like him and Jemma and he took a step further for once.

Of course, … There are still bad things. They don't just disappear. The thought of his father being out of prison is still staining the happiness. Meeting someone from the past is reliving old memories and for the first time in quite a while, he feels the urge to talk to Doctor Addington … He knows he can always talk to Jemma about everything, just like she can talk to him about everything, but talking to the therapist is different and necessary. Where Jemma is his anchor and soulmate, his therapist is the rational voice in the background, the professional who convinces him that he really improved 

What would she tell him now? What would she say about Alistair? She would understand in a way no one else does, in which ways it affects Fitz that he is out of prison. 

He looks at Jemma again who is twitching in her sleep now. Her breath quickens up a bit and her brows furrow. Fitz frowns and forgets his own thoughts. Is she having a nightmare?

The next moment, Jemma whimpers. The noise goes straight to Fitz’s heart. Yes. Definitely a nightmare. 

„Jemma?“ He asks, hesitantly reaching out a hand to her.

[Jemma]

  
It’s dark and cold around Jemma. Thick fog floats through the streets. The empty streets. Jemma feels a shiver running down her spine when she realizes, how lonely she is.

She walks faster, her bag filled with books bumping against her legs. Her breath appears in front of her as a little cloud.

She wishes someone would be with her. Fitz … But Fitz is … Where is he? She feels a hint of confusion. She is about to cross a street, but suddenly hesitates. She stops, looking into the darkness in front of her that is like a thick wall. She can’t see through it.

Jemma shivers again. She doesn’t want to go on. This feels like … like it happened before. Déjà vu?

You have to go on, a voice inside her head whispers. You want to get home, don’t you?

Yes. Home. Home, where it’s light and warm and safe. Jemma swallows and straightens up. It’s just a street. She’s almost home on the other side. She walks on. Suddenly, there’s a tearing noise and her books fall on the street. “No,” Jemma gasps, realizing her bag somehow ripped, and now her books are scattered on asphalt. She crouches down with a terrified whimper, hurrying to collect them. She can’t leave them. She needs them for an important test she has to pass.

It seems to take ages, until she picks up the last book and gets up, her arms aching under the load. The heap of books is so huge, she can’t look over it, but she can’t see anyway … Jemma wants to start walking again, when she hears the noise.

A noise, that is making her freeze. Her heartbeat seems to stop. No …

It’s the noise of a car’s breaks screeching. The next moment, a bright light blinds Jemma, making her squeeze her eyes shut. No, she thinks. No, not again … She wants to move, wants to run, wants to … She can’t catch a single thought and can’t move a limb. She’s just standing there, frozen in place, looking at the light that comes closer and closer, until it fills out her whole field of vision and she knows – God, she knows! – that the car is going to hit her.

Jemma screams.

  
“Jemma? Jemma!”

_  
Fitz … _

He’s calling her name, his voice cutting right into the dream and she’s pulled out of it, waking up with a gasp. Sudden light blinds her and she blinks, looking around confused, the terrifying pictures of the nightmare fading too slowly. Reality sinks in and she feels relieve flooding through her. Thank God. It’s over …

Fitz’s hand is on her shoulder, warm and solid. She clings to it mentally. And to his voice. “Jemma … It’s alright. You’re alright. It was just a dream.”

A dream. Yes. Only a nightmare. God … She hasn’t had such a horrible nightmare about the accident for a long while. Jemma can’t supress a sob. And suddenly, there’s Fitz all around her. She’s pulled into a tight warm embrace and allows it with a relieved sigh.

She shivers, as the pictures and sensations of the nightmare still linger on the edges of her mind. The lights … The screeching of the brakes …

She whimpers and presses her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent.

Fitz doesn’t say anything for a while. He just strokes her back in an even, soothing rhythm.

When she calmed down a bit, Jemma sighs and backs away, to grab a tissue from the nightstand and blow her nose. Fitz looks at her questioningly. “You want to talk about it?”

“I … I dreamed about the accident,” Jemma murmurs, absently wading the tissue to a ball.

“Oh.”

Jemma sighs and wipes a lost strand of hair out her face. She feels a hint of anger. “Yes … It’s … Oh, it’s stupid!”

Fitz shakes his head. “It’s really not, Jemma. No. You know that you had a traumatic experience back then. It’s normal to still dream about it. It’s normal to still be scared because of it. You don’t have to feel angry about it, or guilty, or … You know what I mean.”

Jemma nods, the anger fading a bit, but still lingering. He’s right. And he's been there. “I know. Thanks for reminding me, Fitz … I guess I’m just disappointed it’s not gone, yet, you know. It’s been so long ago …”

“It’s not going to go away,” Fitz says quietly. “You’re just learning how to deal with it. Your feelings are valid, and you shouldn’t fight them.”

Another important reminder. It’s not going away. Jemma knows that’s something Fitz had to learn the hard way too. She sees his eyes clouding over and knows he’s about to slip into a memory. She moves back to him, pressing against his chest and sighing when he puts his arms back around her. “Thank you, Fitz,” she says quietly. He just hums. She spends a while just listening to his even heartbeat and thinking about how the accident is still affecting her. Before crossing a street, she’s looking to both sides much more often now than she used to in the past. She also flinches, when a car honks or breaks screech.

Maybe, she thinks, she should talk about it with someone again. A therapist. Maybe she will do that.

For the moment, it’s good to have Fitz here, who can help her, to not feel guilty for feeling like she does. He’s always been good at that …

* * *

The day promises to get warm.

There's almost no cloud on the light blue sky and the birds are singing cheerfully. A squirrel searches the meadow for a good hiding place for the hazelnut it's carrying, and a rabbit is watching it from near the bushes, chewing lazily and enjoying the sunlight.

When Fitz and Jemma decide to take a walk and go outside, Mr. Mistoffelees suddenly runs towards them, screaming. There’s no other word for the sound he’s making. Confused, Jemma lifts the cat and looks at him. “What’s wrong with you, little guy? Did the mice in the barn tease you, huh? He barely manages to catch them nowadays,” she tells Fitz, who chuckles and strokes a finger over Mr. Mistoffelees head. “Poor chap. He’s getting too old for them.”

Mr. Mistoffelees makes a noise that sounds frustrated and struggles in Jemma’s arm, so she puts him down into the grass again. He stares up at them, his green eyes wide open, and meows loudly again. It sounds urgent.

Jemma and Fitz frown at each other. “If you ask me, it sounds like he wants to tell us something,” Fitz says. Jemma nods. “Sadly, I don’t talk cat …” Right that moment, Mr. Mistoffelees turns and runs towards the barn, stopping to look back at them, one, two times. “Think he wants to follow us?” Jemma asks slightly amused. “I think so,” Fitz answers. “Come on, Watson.” “I’m Sherlock. We settled that already.”

They follow the cat to the old barn. When they enter it, a few chickens flatter around slightly alarmed. Mr. Mistoffelees sits in front of a big heap of hay, and meows again. Fitz and Jemma go over to him. When they look at the hay, it suddenly moves, and Jemma gasps in surprise. “Oh. Oh my …”

A little heap of kitten lays in the soft golden hay. They are tiny greyish furballs, their eyes still half-closed. They are whimpering, the sound going straight to Jemma’s heart.

“Bloody hell,” Fitz murmurs, frowning. “They’re really small”

“They are only babies! Where do you think their mother is?” Jemma says worriedly, crouching down to inspect the kittens closer.

“I don’t know. But when the babies are so small, she shouldn’t be far, right?” Fitz says, biting his lip.

Jemma nods wordlessly. Worry nags at her, as she’s watching the kitten moving around sluggishly. What if something happened to their mother? What if she got run over by a car? A car … She’s unkindly reminded of her previous nightmare and shudders. Ugh. She really starts to hate cars.

The kitten start to meow desperately. Without doubt they are calling for their mother.

“They are so tiny,” Jemma whispers, her eyes filling with tears and her heart aching. “We can’t leave them alone, Fitz.”

“No. We are going to take care of them if their mother can’t,” Fitz says firmly, coming to kneel in the hay beside her.

Jemma looks at him in wonder. Her heart fills with a warm spark of adoration, as she sees his eyes filled with determination. “Really?”

“Really. Being a cat parent certainly is a point on your bucket list, right?”

Jemma laughs. “I don’t have a bucket list. Not yet, at least. But it would be on it for sure.”

“We should put them inside a box, so nothing can happen to them. And I guess we should kind of keep them here anyway, because if their mother comes searching for them, it would be horrible for her if they aren’t here. And … We have to feed them, right? Or check, if they are ok …”

Jemma nods. This all makes sense. She thinks for a moment and smiles, when she remembers something. “Our neighbours, the Smiths, they had kitten this year too. And they had to feed some of them per hand. They surely know what to do. I can go to them and ask. But … I don’t think they know about kitten health. And the vet is closed today, I don’t …”

“Radcliffe,” Fitz suddenly says, his brows furrowing. “Didn’t Radcliffe say he studied veterinary medicine.”

“He did. What are you …”

“I’ll go to him. With the kittens. He can check them and tell us what to do,” Fitz says curtly.

“Are you sure?” Jemma asks, frowning. Fitz was so upset after they left Radcliffe’s house. And now he wants to go there voluntarily. “I admit it’s a good idea, but don’t you rather want to switch? I could go to Radcliffe and you could …”

“No. It’s alright,” Fitz says, smiling at her. “He’s … alright. He’s from my past, but I have to separate that from him. He didn’t have anything to do with Alistair and what he did. It would be stalling to not go to see him. And even if it’s hard sometimes, I rather face my fears now, than running from them.”

“That’s very brave, Fitz,” Jemma tells him softly, stroking his arm and smiling.

He nods curtly, getting up and brushing the hay off his pants. “Now, let’s get a box.”

[Holden]

  
Holden didn’t expect to see Fitz again so soon. In fact, he’d mentally prepared to never see him again at all. After all, he was reminding Fitz of all the things he doesn’t want to remember. If Fitz said he wouldn’t ever want to get close to him again, Holden would have understood it.

But then, only two days after watching Fitz leaving with his girlfriend, Holden opens the door after he heard a hesitant knock, and the boy is standing right in front of him, clutching a box to his chest. “Hello,” he says quietly, his eyes flitting to the side nervously.

“Fitz!” Holden calls surprised, rubbing the back of his head. “Uhm. Hey. Come in.”

Fitz just nods and enters the flat, smiling softly when Barney comes to greet him, his tail wagging. The dog sniffs at Fitz’s leg and then perks up his head, barking excitingly up at the box. Holden raises an eyebrow and ushers Barney out of the room, closing the door. “So … What do you have there?” Holden asks. 

Fitz puts the box on the table and that’s when Holden hears the meowing. “Oh.” He looks inside and sees a bunch of tiny kittens.

“Uhm, we found them in the barn, without their mother. Jemma went to the neighbours for … stuff. We wanted to help in case their mother doesn’t show up. And since you said, you, uh you’d studied vet-vet-vet-“ He stops, furrowing his brows and looking angry at himself for a moment. Holden just waits, watching as Fitz breathes in and out before trying again. “Ve-veterinary medicine, we thought you might … could … help?” He finishes and sighs, looking relieved to have the words out.

“Of course! I can check them through,” Holden says brightly, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt a bit nervously. “Just let me fetch my old bag …”

Fitz watches him closely and calmly, as he pulls the kitten out one by one just a few moments later, looking at their eyes and noses, pressing on their little bellies carefully, listening for any strange sound or feeling for any irregularities. The little things are surprisingly calm. Only one of the kittens, a quite sturdy male for his age, makes an angry tiny noise and snaps at the finger trying to rub at his belly, all four little legs kicking into the air wildly. Holden chuckles and struggles his finger free carefully. “My, look at that. He’s a tough little guy. He will be fine.”

For the first time since he’s entered the flat, Fitz smiles. It’s a timid and barely noticeable smile, but it’s there. It’s making his eyes brighter. And even when he looks much more like Alistair than Martha – or does he, really? Or is Holden just thinking he does? – he sees a lot of her in him.

“They are all perfectly healthy,” Holden announces, putting the last kitten back into the box, where they all cuddle up and doze off. “One is a bit smaller than the others, but with the right care … They should all grow up just fine.”

“Thank you,” Fitz says quietly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“They are glad you found them.”

“Yeah, well … The Simmon’s cat Mr. Mistoffelees actually led us to them. He’s the real hero,” Fitz murmurs, his lips twitching. “I’ll … bring them back now.” He moves to get the box, but suddenly frowns and supports himself on the table with one hand, his body swaying slightly.

“Are you alright?” Holden asks worriedly.

Fitz nods quickly. “Yeah, I … I am just a bit tired. That’s all. Happens from time to time.”

Holden hums and wrings his hands. “Why don’t you stay for a while and rest? I made tea anyway.”

Fitz hesitates. He seems to fight with himself for a moment, chewing on his lip. Finally, he nods and sighs. “Alright.”

Holden smiles. “Great.”

* * *

  
A little while later, they’re sitting on the couch, drinking tea. It’s quiet. The kitten seem to sleep. Barney is outside in the garden, running around happily and catching leaves falling from the trees.

“So … You’re studying now?” Holden asks.

Fitz winces slightly, apparently having been a bit lost in thoughts, but then he nods. “Yeah. I re-started my Engineering studies this year,” he says, sipping his tea.

“Ah. Impressive. Do you have any plans for when you’re finished?”

“I could imagine building prosthetics. I really would like to help people with what I do. A lot of people helped me to get better in the last years, so I’d like to be helpful too,” Fitz explains.

Holden nods. “That’s great. I’m sure you will help a lot of people, Fitz.”

Fitz hums and takes a sip of his tea again. He looks at Holden closely and for a moment, his gaze is almost too intense. When he talks again, his voice is shaking slightly, and Holden quickly realizes, the boy’s asking something he doesn’t really want to. “So … How well did you know Al-Alistair?”

Holden thinks for a moment. “Not as good as I thought, obviously,” he says quietly. “We had a beer in the pub now and then. There he was … charismatic? Kind of clumsy with people he didn’t know though.”

Fitz nods. He looks at his hands, that are tightly intertwined in his lap. “And my mother?”

Holden’s hand freezes in the air and he almost drips tea on his pants. Does he know? Why the question? Why now? Maybe it’s just because he asked about his father, now he does about his mother, Holden calms himself. It’s just … a normal order when it comes to small talk, right?

“We met a few times. I liked her. She was … smart. Kind. She had a big heart for everyone,” he says hesitantly.

Fitz looks at him again, his face impassive, but his eyes lively. “She mentioned you a few times,” he says quietly and Holden swallows. “But I can’t quite remember what she said.”

Oh. Holden almost feels guilty for the hint of relieve Fitz’s words are causing. “I’m sure it was nothing important,” he says and chuckles. It sounds quite forced to him. But Fitz just hums and looks at him seriously. “I want to be honest. I didn’t want to come here again. I … Seeing you, hearing about Alistair, stirred up a lot of memories I’d been trying to process over the last months. I was scared, I would panic, if I’d be here again. But … It’s alright. You said … Alistair asked for me. But he doesn’t know where I am, right?”

Holden nods. “He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know about this house either. Don’t worry.”

Fitz sighs. “Everyone tells me not to worry. But … none of you know him like I do. You don’t know what he’s capable of. I’ve been spending years thinking about him. Why he did the things he did. He’s …” He stops, and Holden notices his breaths have gotten hastier. There’s a fine layer of sweat on Fitz’s forehead and his hands are trembling.

“Are you alright?” He asks worriedly.

Fitz shakes his head. He gets up quickly, putting his mug on the table. “I have to leave now. I … Jemma’s going to wonder where I am,” he murmurs more to himself than to Holden, and reaches for the box with the kittens carefully. “Thanks for your help. And for the tea. Thanks … And please, if Alistair is contacting you in any way, don’t tell him about me.”

“He won’t Fitz. He doesn’t know …”

“Just … Remember my words. You know, he’s like a shadow,” Fitz says hollowly. “A shadow hunting. He has been hunting in my mind for years, and now he’s doing it in the real world too.”

He swallows heavily and clutches the box to his chest. The kittens started meowing again. “Goodbye …”

He leaves. Fast.

Holden looks after him, frowning.

* * *

After Fitz’s departure, Holden feels restless. He does some minor repairs on the fences and goes on a long walk with Barney. The dog seems to sense his tenseness. He doesn’t leave Holden’s side, often nuzzling his hand, licking it now and then.

They walk for a long time, until the sun is about to set.

When they approach the house, Barney suddenly growls low in the back of his throat. Surprised, Holden looks down at the dog, holding on to his collar, just in case … Maybe he has seen a stout or another little predator that could do harm to the chickens. Holden is about to look into the barn, when a cold voice cuts through the air like a knife would cut through butter.

“Hello Holden.”

Holden freezes. No. That can’t be. That would be too much of a coincidence. And one too many. No …

But there he is, leaning against the fence, smoking a cigarette. Alistair Fitz. A very real Alistair Fitz whose face is wearing a very real smirk.

“What are you doing here?” Holden asks, his fingers tightening around Barney’s collar. The dog is still growling.

“It wasn’t that difficult to find out about your current abode.” Alistair gestures at the farmhouse disdainfully. “I don’t get why you would trade your apartment in Glasgow for … this. But well. You have always been strange, right?”

Holden doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to feel or think. His head is a mess, his mind overcrowded by too many memories. Martha … Oh God. And everything he knows now. Everything he knows about what this man did to his only son. His son … Who was here just a few hours ago. Shite. Alistair can’t know …

“Aren’t you going to invite me in or what?” Alistair asks. He smiles, but his eyes are cold as ice.

“Sure …” Holden opens the door with fingers that feel numb. He sends Barney to the garden and the dog goes reluctantly, looking at Alistair before trotting off. Holden leads the other man into the living room. “Tea?” He asks.

Alistair shakes his head. “I’m not going to stay long. Just … Want to have a chat.”

“Alright.”

They sit at the table, facing each other. Alistair is staring at him, his eyes showing no emotion. They are pale. For the first time, Holden thinks that Fitz’s eyes actually doesn’t look like Alistair’s at all …

“So … What are you doing here?” Radcliffe asks, smiling curtly. It’s a forced smile that feels horribly wrong on his face. _How the hell did he find me?_ “Want to talk about old times?”

Alistair barks a short laugh. “Old times … Sure. Did you see my son lately, Holden?”

Holden freezes. “No. Why should I have seen him, here of all places? This is the middle of nowhere.”

Alistair leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Hmm. Well. A Leopold Fitz ordered train tickets for Ashburton. A Leopold Fitz signed a bill here. I asked around in the village a bit, you know. It’s not that difficult to find people. Not for someone like me. And especially not, if the person you’re searching didn’t change their name.” Alistair looks quite pleased with himself.

Holden’s stomach drops. So he knows Fitz is here. He shakes his head. “You did enough damage to the boy. Leave him alone,” he says through gritted teeth.

Alistair raises his brows. “So you did see him, didn’t you? Well. It’s a small, small world. I just want to talk to him.”

Holden scoffs. “You play no role in his life, not anymore. He has a true family now, who loves him. A wonderful smart girlfriend. A happy life. One not involving you. One that doesn’t need you. You’re just a memory. A bad one.”

Alistair snarls and leans over the table, staring at Holden and narrowing his eyes. “I’m not just anyone. I’m his father. His real family. His _blood_.”

“Family doesn’t have to be about blood, Alistair ...”

“You have no idea of that … You will help me, won’t you, Holden?” Alistair says, with a big smile that reminds Holden of a shark. He shakes his head and clenches his hands into fists. “No. Not anymore. Not after I heard what you did to your son.”

Alistair gets up abruptly, shoving his chair back. He walks around the table and comes close. So close Holden can feel his heavy breath on his skin. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. Everything I did, was for his best. His mother has been coddling him. She wanted to make him a crying pathetic weakling. And in the end, she reached her goal. And then she had the audacity to die! I stood there, all alone, without a wife a job, left with a weakling of a son. What would you have done in my place, eh? The alcohol helped me. But lately I realized, I was tending to it too much. I got sober in prison. Very sober. I’m a different man now.”

Holden shakes his head, feeling numb with anger. “There’s no excuse for what you did to him, Alistair. There can’t be an excuse. You traumatized him. Because of you, he thinks he isn’t good enough. That he isn’t smart enough. You were too daft, to realize your own son’s genius! And you know what? He hates you. He bloody hates you.” And for some reason he will never be able to explain, Holden has to laugh. Hysterically.

Something shifts in Alistair’s glance. Holden sees it. He sees the moment Alistair stops pretending to be all calm and friendly. And he’s not at all surprised, when the blow comes. When it hits him right on the nose. First, he doesn’t even feel the pain. He just falls off his chair and lands on the floor hard. The next moment, the pain is so sharp, it whites out the world. He gasps and reaches for his bleeding nose.

Alistair hovers over him, blocking out the gloomy daylight. A shadow … He hears Fitz’s words echoing in his head. A shadow, hunting … In the real world.

“You have been right,” Alistair snarls, pulling Holden up by the collar of his shirt. “I am going to do a lot more than talking if it doesn't help. And who is to blame me? This little shit and the poor excuse of a man named Coulson destroyed my fucking live. And why, eh? Because of some discipline! My father taught me respect with and it made me strong. It made me a proper man. I was just trying to do the same to this worthless piece of shit. And I’ve been nothing but a good father.”

Despite his fear, Holden chuckles. He can’t keep it in. This is ridiculous. He still thinks he’s done everything right. “Keep lying to yourself. See where it gets you,” he croaks, smiling despite his burning chapped lip.

Alistair growls. “Shut up! And you … You think I’m stupid, don’t you? Do you think I didn’t notice how you looked at her? Is there anything, you want to tell me, Holden? Did you screw my wife?!”

Holden spits at Alistair’s face and laughs again, through the pain. “Fuck you, you pathetic excuse of a man! She didn’t love you. She hated you as well!”

Alistair howls like an animal. The next moment, the blows come fast and merciless. When it’s over, Holden is laying on the floor, wheezing. Alistair rolls him over with his foot, glaring down at him disgusted. “You are pathetic, Holden. You are all pathetic. But you will pay. Oh, you will pay …”

He turns to go.

“I’m going to tell the police you’ve been here, you know!” Holden calls out weakly. “I’ll tell them what you did and that you’re after your son. They will catch you and throw you back into a cell. And there you can rot!”

Alistair looks back at him one more time. His smirk is ugly. “I think you didn’t understand, Holden. I’m a man with nothing to lose now. I don’t care. Do what you think you have to do. But … I’m going to make it difficult for you. I need some time.”

He cuts the phone lines in front of Holden’s eyes. Then, he opens the door, ready to leave. “Goodbye, Holden,” he says coldly. “Don’t get in my way. Or you’ll regret it, I swear.” The door slams shut.

Holden groans and clutches at his aching stomach. Maybe, he thinks weakly, maybe there’s internal bleeding. But that’s not the most important thing right now. Fitz … He has to warn them. Has to … Holden can feel he’s about to pass out and tries desperately to stay awake.

He understands now, very clearly, that this is indeed a different man. A bad man entered prison, a worse one came out.


	7. Fitz / Jemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw: There's some describtion of violence in the second part of this chapter! Also some suicidal thoughts.

_Now._   
  


[Fitz]  
  
  


“How are you feeling this morning, Fitz?”

The question is familiar. The answer is out of reach. Buried in a heap of emotions he can’t start to describe in words. If he’d been asked to paint his state of mind, he would have drawn layers of different shades of blue surrounded by black.

Silence falls as Dr. Addington waits with the usual unswerving patience none of the predecessor therapists could muster. At some point, sooner or later, their endurance vanished. They started to tip the top of a pencil against their desk, sighed and scrabbled meaningless angry words on their pads, or - like Randall loved to do - started to explain to him, why silence wasn’t an option. Dr. Addington does none of that. She’s just sitting in her chair, watching him. The only noises are the quiet rushing coming from the aquarium in the corner and the rain beating against the windowpanes evenly.

Fitz focuses on the aquarium in which the fish are floating unhurriedly from one gently swaying rose-coloured anemone to the other. It’s a peaceful sight and he clings to it. He doesn’t want to look at Dr. Addington. Eyes and facial expressions, what they don’t mean and what they could mean is exhausting him to no end these days.

He feels the urge to rip the bandages off his wrist. The skin itches under it. A persistent reminder of what happened.

Of what is still happening.

Even Dr. Addington reaches a point, where she breaks the silence. But she doesn’t do it for a sigh or a sharp reminder of why-talking-is-the-only-way-to-get-better. She does it for a quiet yet firm, “You have to let it out, Fitz. If you continue to bottle it up, it will eventually come out in a much worse way.”

He _knows_. He experienced it. But he can’t help it. The words slip away from him. His thoughts wander off. Trying to get away from the corner of his mind, where he stored all the unwanted memories of the last week.

It’s so surreal to be here now, he thinks. It’s like nothing changed. Like he didn’t meet Jemma, like he didn’t leave the hospital, the ward, at all. It’s as if he’d dreamed everything. As if he’s still in that coma. Maybe that’s the truth. Who knows? Who knows what’s real at all. Maybe in a few moments he will wake up with a splitting headache, feeling confused and nauseous, unable to talk, to move or to remember …

“You’re thinking. Do it loud,” Dr. Addington encourages him. 

Fitz sighs. He fights through the feeling that nothing matters anyway that has come back in the last days, trying to pull him back into the familiar grey clutches of depression, and tries to form words he has to dig out from somewhere dark and somber, with a voice he doesn’t trust.

“I’m not sure what to think or feel. I … It’s like nothing changed at all. Like nothing I did matters. Like … like I ran and ran but didn’t get forward and actually still am standing at the starting point,” he murmurs, clenching his unhurt hand into a tight fist. Useless … Weak. Pathetic. Failure. The words, echoing in his head are like venom.

“Everything has changed, Fitz. You didn’t stand still. And you haven’t been thrown back all the way now. Your progress and your achievements are still there. Don’t let this take it all away,” Dr. Addington says.

Fitz scoffs. He shakes his head, finally looking at her. “But it did take all away! I … I failed to protect the people close to me. I failed to protect Jemma. She was hurt. Radcliffe was hurt …” He shudders and tries to shove the uprising pictures away. That bruise on Jemma’s cheek … violet spotted with red. God. He starts to feel sick again. “How can I look her in the eye again,” he murmurs. “My life with her … It’s over. I’m not, not good for her.”

“But you didn’t hurt any of them, Fitz. It was Alistair who did it. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t tell him to do these things. He did them because he wanted to. Besides … Why do you think your life with Jemma is over? Have you been talking to her?”

No. He didn’t want to cause her more pain. Even if she would want to see him, he can’t let that happen. She deserves better. She should find someone better. Someone, who she doesn’t connect to these memories of the barn …

But, oh, it hurts. It hurts so much to think about her moving on. To think about never seeing her again.

For the first time in a year, Fitz vaguely thinks about how being dead wouldn’t be so bad. His mum always told him; he doesn’t have to be scared of death. It would be like before you were born. And that wasn’t so bad … Everything would be away. The pain, the fear, the self-loathing.

Fitz restlessly fumbles with his bandaged wrist. He’s scaring himself.

Dr. Addington is watching him closely. “What do you want to do, Fitz?” She asks.

He wants a lot. He wants to lay down and never get up again. He wants to vanish into the void and leave nothing of himself back in this world. He wants to close his eyes and never feel this guilt, shame, fear and self-hatred ever again. But most important, he doesn’t want to burden anyone of the people close to him with his useless self.

“I want to stay here, if I may,” he says quietly.

“Of course you may. I promised you, remember? I told you, if you ever need help, you always can come here. But don’t you think you could go home and just return here every day, for a check?”

Fitz shakes his head. “No. I … I don’t think I want to leave. I’m having very bad thoughts right now.”

“How bad?”

He tries to find the right words for a long time. But the words won’t come. So, he just points to where the sleeve of his jumper hides the old scar on his wrist. “That bad,” he murmurs.

“Alright. I think it would be good for you, to get a proper night’s rest,” Dr. Addington tells him, making a note on her pad. “It’s good that you’re seeking help, Fitz,” she adds. “It’s a strong thing to do. Remember. There are setbacks. There always will be. It’s part of the recovery. No one could have seen this coming. It wasn’t your fault. Try to not take this all on your own shoulders. You have people around you, who care about you and you’re not a burden for them. Jemma wants to talk to you. She wants to see you. Think about it, alright?”

* * *

Fitz makes his way through the hallway of the ward slowly. His head is pounding and his ribs are protesting against each step. He stops for a moment, supporting himself on the wall and wiping his sweaty forehead. He sighs. Damn existence for being so bloody exhausting …

Suddenly, steps approach. Someone turns around the corner. It’s Mack. Fitz feels a pleasant hint of warmth at his sight. When Mack sees Fitz, he stops, his eyes widening momentarily. “Turbo?” He asks, surprised.

“Hey, Mack,” Fitz says, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Yes, I’m back at the club. Great, right? He sways on the spot, his legs suddenly feeling weak. Mack reaches out to support him, his big hands sure and solid. “Whoa, okay, listen … Why don’t we sit down and you drink some water …”

He leads Fitz to a quiet spot with some chairs and Fitz sinks down on one gratefully. Mack gets him a cup of water and sits opposite him. His eyes flick from Fitz’s still bruised face to the bandage around his wrist. He frowns. “What happened?”

The question again.

The answer is too much.

Way too much.

_One week ago._   
  


[Jemma]  
  


Jemma watches the kitten nestling into the hay with a smile. They are well-fed now that she got milk from the neighbours and since Fitz built them a little fenced play pen, they can’t stray off and are safe in the barn. Perfect. Time to let them doze in private.

Jemma gets up, turns around and freezes.

A strange man is standing in front of her, smoking a cigarette. He’s watching her with an impassive expression on his face.

Somehow, she knows immediately, who he is. Her stomach drops. That can’t be. How could he know they are here? Fitz’s warnings come to her mind, and she feels her throat tightening.

“Good afternoon,” the man says, taking a few steps further into the barn. “I’m searching for a Leopold Fitz.”

“Never heard that name,” Jemma says, trying to sound certain. She notices there’s a spot of blood on his jacket. Where does it come from?

“Is that so,” Alistair Fitz says, looking her up and down. “A friend of mine told me he’s here. Together with a lass.”

“No, really, I can’t help you,” Jemma says, smoothing her hair back nervously. She’s alone in a barn with a man who abused his only son for years and doesn’t think he did anything wrong. She can’t help the fear that mingles with her rage. There’s no one near enough to hear her calling for help. Her phone is in the cottage. Fitz could be in the village doing the shopping for another hour, which she kind of hopes now, since there’s hope Alistair will disappear to search somewhere else. Running away would be an option. But she would have to get past him for that. She knows a few basics of self-defence from a course in her childhood, but never really had to use any of that.

Alistair is still watching her. It feels like being ogled by a shark. His cold eyes are sharp. But there’s a hint of disappointment and doubt in them, that gives Jemma the hope he really might just leave. But this hint of hope is destroyed in one breath of air, when she hears her name being called from outside.

“Jemma?”

Alistair perks up and Jemma’s stomach clenches painfully. Fitz … She wishes she could do anything to prevent this from happening. Could prevent him from entering the barn, from having to face his past.

But there he is, standing in the gate, a basket in his hand. When he sees Alistair, he stops dead, his eyes widening.

Alistair smiles. “Hello, Leopold.”  
  


[Fitz]  
  


The basket drops to the ground. A few oranges and tomatoes roll over the floor to all sides.

Time seems to stand still, as they all stare at each other.

He can’t breathe. A sharp cold spreads in his body, making him shiver. He can hear the pulse of his heart thundering. This isn’t real, a desperate part of his mind screams. This can’t be real. He can’t be here. Not here. Not now.

For a little hopeful moment, he thinks it’s a nightmare. He will wake up. He will wake up and cuddle up against Jemma, the shadow of his past gone, just a distant aching memory … But when Jemma quietly says, “Fitz,” he realizes, he’s not going to wake up. Not this time.

The image in front of his eyes doesn’t change. Reality doesn’t change. He is staring at the shadow of his past and a wave of unwanted partially suppressed memories flooding his mind, accompanied by the vague smell of booze … No. No, no, no …

Alistair is still smiling, looking Fitz up and down, before throwing Jemma a look, his eyebrows raising. “Never heard his name, eh? Jemma … It’s not polite to lie to a man, Jemma.”

Fitz feels a pang of anger at how he’s talking to Jemma. “Leave her a-a-a,” he stops, taking a shuddering breath. Of course. Now. _Now _his injury has to act up. How fitting.

Alistair glances at him, shaking his head. Disappointment enters his cold eyes. “Well, well. Look at you, all grown up but stuttering like an idiot.”

Fitz stumbles a step backwards. The words feel like a punch in the face. Jemma inhales sharply. “Don’t you dare talk to him like this! You have no right!” She calls out, actually making a step towards Alistair, her eyes shooting daggers.

“I have every right, girl, I’m his father,” Alistair tells her, his impassive smile showing the first cracks. “So … Why don’t we go inside? To have a talk,” he says, focusing back on Fitz.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Fitz says sharply, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “I want you to leave.”

Alistair blinks and his smile drops completely. His eyes narrow. Something dangerous enters them. “That’s really how you want to treat your father? You’re aware I came a very long way to see you?”

“No one asked you to,” Fitz says. “I didn’t want you to find me.”

Alistair makes a mildly amused sound. “Yeah, yeah. You all thought I won’t find you right? Holden did too. Well. That was a mistake.”

Holden. Fitz shivers. He notices the splotch of blood on Alistair’s shirt now. “Did you hurt him?”

“Oh, I just roughened him up a bit. He’ll be alright,” Alistair says, the shark-smile appearing on his face again.

Jemma throws Fitz a concerned look. He swallows. This is bad. Someone was already injured. And who knows … What if Alistair hurt even more people before he came here? What if … God. Coulson and Robin. He feels the overwhelming urge to make sure they are alright.

“So what now, we’re going inside and talk, or are we going to stand here staring at each other forever?” Alistair asks, throwing his cigarette on the floor and stepping on it.

Fitz watches him doing it, feeling numb.

“I think you didn’t understand. He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Jemma says coldly, her eyes still blazing. 

Alistair narrows his eyes. “You know what, I think I’m having enough of a lass telling me what to do and how I have to talk to my son, you better shut that pretty mouth of yours,” he snarls and takes a step forward, raising a hand.

Fitz sees red. “Don’t you dare touch her!” He snaps, getting in front of Jemma, glaring at Alistair. The blood is boiling in his veins. The rage is almost blinding out the fear.

Alistair looks surprised for a moment. But that is quickly replaced by anger. “Y’all treat me like I’m nothing, you should show me some bloody respect! But I expect nothing else of a weak useless retard, raised by a soft coward of a man!”

“He’s a better father than you have ever been or could ever be,” Fitz says, the rage getting even hotter. “Because of him, I grew up being healthy and appreciated. Because of him, I made it to university. He loves me like I am. He doesn’t want me to change.”

Alistair scoffs. “Because of him … Sure. Because of him, you brought you own father into prison. Prison! I spent years beside murderers and rapists and worse than that! I didn’t deserve that,” he spits. His breath got heavier and his eyes are filled with hot rage now. The air is tense around them.

Fitz shakes his head. He faintly warns himself to not say the words coming to his mind. But he needs them out. So he says them, with a faint feeling of gratification glowing in his chest. “You did,” he says quietly. “You did deserve it. And I was glad. I was glad they put you where you belong, you bast -”

Alistair lunges out so suddenly, Fitz doesn’t even recognize it, until he’s backhanded so hard, he stumbles backward, his face burning. Jemma cries out. Fitz shakes his head and tries to focus, his field of vision blurry. His ears are ringing. When he can finally see properly again, he feels a rush of threat at the image in front of him. Jemma is yelling at Alistair and apparently kicked him, since the man is bend over and gripping his stomach, his face showing a combination of rage and slight confusion. He gets up the next moment though, shoving Jemma backwards so hard, she’s falling, hitting her head on the wall. She makes a hurt noise, raising a hand to reach for the back of her head.

No. No, no, no. Fitz grits his teeth and stumbles forward, his face starting to feel numb. “Don’t … Leave her alone!”

Alistair turns to him, his face a mask of rage. But there’s some regret in his eyes. Regret, that actually seems real. “This wouldn’t have happened, if you had decided to take me serious. It’s your own fault!”

Your own fault …

It’s all your fault.

No.

Fitz shakes his head. “No. It’s not my fault. Nothing of this is my fault. Not this, not what happened in the past. I was a child. And you … you were supposed to take care of me. But you didn’t. All you did was drinking, yelling, sleeping on the couch and beating me. I didn’t have proper clothes. I didn’t have proper meals. I didn’t get any proper doctor’s care, not even the basic vaccinations. You were neglecting me. What you did was wrong and you’re still trying to tell yourself you did everything right, even after spending years in prison for what you did. Because it was right. It was right I told the whole court what you did to me. It was right they dragged you out in handcuffs and it was right to put you into a cell. I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re not my family. If there was anything good left in you, you would go and never come back, never seeking me out again.” When he stops, he’s breathing hard and he feels his shirt sticking to his back, soaked in cold sweat that’s drying on his skin.

Alistair is staring at him, breathing heavily. “You think it was easy? You think I wasn’t trying? I was always trying, I …”

“Not hard enough,” Fitz interrupts him. “If you were trying, you would have stopped drinking and would have started to be a proper father. A father you apparently want to be now but it’s too late for that. I don’t want you in my life. There’s nothing you could do, that would change that. Just … Leave.” He points to the door with a hand that’s barley shaking. He’s still scared. But the defiance, the anger and the are more prominent right now.

Alistair looks to the door, then back to Fitz. And for a moment, Fitz thinks that’s it. He thinks the man, the shadowy demon of the past, will walk out and disappear back to where he came from. But that would have been too easy.

This time it’s not only a slap. It’s a punch. It hits Fitz right above his eye and he drops to the ground with a breathless gasp, everything going white for a moment. The next moment, he’s dragged up and pressed against the wall, a hand tightening around his throat. He lunges out blindly and hits flesh, hearing a grunt and the hand disappears for a moment. But then punches are hitting his chest, his ribs protesting and throbbing in pain. He gasps and tries to defend himself, raising a hand that’s grabbed and twisted, until a sharp pain runs through it. His scream is ripped off, when he’s pressed against the wall again. This time, the hand wrapped around his throat doesn’t disappear.

Fitz gasps for air and writhes, quickly feeling lightheaded. But he can hear Alistair’s voice, sounding almost impassive. Like he’s talking about the weather …

“I wanted to give you all a chance, you know? I wanted to be generous, even after what you did to me. I wanted to be patient. But now I realize, it doesn’t matter what I do, no one will appreciate it. We could have been a proper family again. Hell, we could have had included that bloody Coulson, if he’d apologized. That’s how generous I would have been. But no. You all want to live in the past. Not worth my time. I would have made you great. A great man, successful, powerful and respected! Now you are a useless, stuttering idiot, you are nothing! You think your Coulson guy loves you? You think your lass there loves you? I tell you something: What makes them stick to you, is pity. Pity, nothing more. You’re too weak to protect her anyway. She won’t stay with such a weakling. As soon as she gets the chance, she will go and search herself a proper man. And Radcliffe? I wished I’d kill that bastard. Who knows, maybe you’re actually his, eh? Maybe you’re his offspring and I bloody wasted my time, my whole life – Should have gave you to the nuns or something like that!”

Fitz wheezes, grasping at the hand around his throat weakly. Everything starts to get blurry. He can’t breathe. He can’t … He’s back in the dark water and he can’t see or breathe. He’s trapped … Water fills the car and … No. He’s not in a car, he’s in the barn and there’s Jemma, trying to pull Alistair off him. But he pushes her away almost casually, the rage making him too strong.

_Jemma … _

_Run. Just run. Safe yourself … _

_I’m not worth it. _

_I’m … _

Suddenly, the grip around his neck loosens. There’s a grunt and then the hand is gone completely. Fitz slips down the wall and leans back against it heavily, rubbing his sore throat and taking lungful’s of burning air.

Alistair is spread out on the dirty floor, unconscious.

Over him, stands a bloody, heavily breathing Radcliffe, a shattered bottle in his hand. He shakes his head, staring down at Alistair, his eyes filled with fear. He swallows hard. “I hate violence. I have never … Bloody psychopath, it’s what you deserve … Are you alright? Fitz?”

Fitz looks up at him, then he turns his aching head to Jemma, who looks down at Alistair with wide eyes, a bruise forming on her left cheek.

_Jemma … _

She’s hurt. Hurt because of me …

“No,” Fitz says, his voice hoarse. “No …” This is too much. He presses his unhurt hand over his eyes and curls into himself. Too much … Radcliffe says something. He doesn’t make out words. Every noise around him becomes a low rushing. Too much …

He shuts out the world.

* * *

When Fitz lets the world in again, everything has changed, and he flinches. Outside, blue lights are flashing. The barn is filled with strange people. A lot of them are wearing uniform. Police …

He lets his gaze wander around the room, noticing he sees less on his right eye, which seems to be swollen. He can’t discover Jemma, but on the other side of the room, Radcliffe talks to a woman who is writing on a pad.

The next moment, someone crouches down in front of him. It’s a young man, wearing white clothes. “Can you hear me, Mr. Fitz?”

Fitz blinks and tries to focus on the man, sluggishly raising a hand to rub his throbbing head.

The man smiles at him. “There you are. Great. Can I take a look at your throat? That bruising looks painful ...” He reaches out a gloved hand, but Fitz flinches back involuntarily, whimpering when the movement causes everything to sway. 

“Jem …” He murmurs. “Where …” Where is Jemma? Is she alright? Is she …

The next moment, Jemma appears in front of him, her eyes filled with tears. The bruise on her cheek is violet with red spots. When Fitz sees it, he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Fitz, can you let them look at you? You’re hurt,” Jemma tells him, taking his unhurt hand into hers and stroking the skin there with her thumb, like she often does when he’s restless or anxious.

Fitz takes a shuddering breath, but he nods. The man carefully prods at his throat and after that asks too many questions. “Do you have a headache? Are you feeling nauseous? Are you …”

Fitz closes his eyes and wishes he could disappear again. Jemma says something to him, but he can’t make out any words. 

The man is still there, prodding at his right wrist now. A sharp pain shoots through Fitz’s whole arm and he tries to pull it back with a gasp. There are some more mumbled words that don’t make any sense.

Jemma strokes his shoulder. “They’re going to take you to a hospital now, alright?”

Hospital … No. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to be left alone. Fitz tries to sit up again, when pain explodes in his chest. The pain is white and hot. It consumes him like a fire. He gasps and leans back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

Another person kneels beside him. A blurry shadow in white … A paramedic. She wipes his arm with something wet and he tries to flinch back, but he can’t seem to move. His body feels so heavy with pain.

“It’s a sedative,” he hears her saying.

“No …,” Fitz murmurs, trying to pull his arm back. But the needle already pierced the skin of his arm.

“I’m sorry, Fitz. I’m so sorry.” Jemma’s whispered words are an echo, following him into the darkness that creeps into his field of vision.

* * *

The hospital is a nightmare.

It’s loud and busy. People enter his room suddenly, prodding at him, sticking needles into him or telling him to move a limb for them. He drifts in and out of a restless slumber, feeling like a truck has hit him.

He has two bruised and a broken rib, his right wrist is broken and his throat is sore and breathing hurts. His right eye is swollen shut and he has a few more minor bruises. Generally, his whole body feels like it’s on fire.

A policewoman talks to him about what happened. He tells her about it almost mechanically. Tells her how he found Jemma and Alistair in the barn when he got back from the village, how he told Fitz he just wanted to talk and how they told him to leave. How Alistair got angrier and more aggressive with the time, eventually starting to be violent. How Fitz and Jemma tried to defend each other and how he was almost choked to death while Alistair was talking like nothing was happening, until Holden Radcliffe appeared and knocked Alistair out with a bottle.

The policewoman tells him he might have to testify against Alistair in court again. Fitz doesn’t care. Not now. “Please,” he croaks, when the woman prepares to leave. “I want to, to talk to my Dad. Phil Coulson. I, I have to know, if he’s safe.”

But they don’t let him phone, telling him he’s too stressed and that they worry about his mental state. They know about his past, he knows then. Probably took a look into his certainly very thick file. He sees the old familiar pity in their eyes he still knows from his last hospital stay. The “poor-broken-boy” look.

He asks for Coulson and Jemma again, when a nurse comes to check on him and give him water. She shakes her head, smiles brightly and tells him to rest for now.

Fitz feels a hot rush of anger and throws the cup of water against the wall.

He’s sedated again and when he wakes up from the restless drug-induced slumber, Jemma’s there for a five-minute visit she demanded from the doctor, telling him she spoke to Coulson – who is unharmed, just like Robin - and told him what happened, and that he’s on his way. She also tells him that she loves him and that everything’s going to be alright. But Fitz looks at the bruise on her cheek and the bandage wrapped around her head, and feels so guilty, it seems to split him apart.

When sleep finally comes, it’s a mercy.  
  


* * *

When Fitz wakes up next time, Radcliffe sits beside the bed, looking at him with a combination of sorrow and worry in his eyes. One of them is swollen shut. “How are you feeling?” He asks.

Fitz just shakes his head.

Radcliffe clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t tell him where you are. He appeared in front of my house so suddenly … I didn’t think he would find us.”

Fitz doesn’t say anything. He thinks back to the incident in the barn. There was something, Alistair was saying about Radcliffe, while he choked Fitz. Something … “The bastard,” he’d said. Fitz frowns.

“Why … why was Al-Alistiar so … so angry at you?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, every word burning in his damaged throat.

Radcliffe’s breath hitches. He avoids Fitz’s gaze and starts to fumble with his hands. “Well … I … I didn’t want you to learn about it like this, really. I … It’s …” He sighs, wiping his forehead nervously. He takes a few breaths. “I loved her,” he eventually blurts out, sounding pained. “I loved your mother.”

Fitz blinks. The words reached him. But they make no sense. “What?”

“Your mother … I … I had an affair with her. It was wrong and … We stopped it. When she was pregnant with you.” Radcliffe bites his chapped lip, looking sad and like lost in the bitter echo of a pleasant but meaningless memory.

Fitz can just stare at him. He can’t believe what he has just heard. He remembers now … Faintly remembers a smiling Radcliffe crouching down to be at eye level with him when he was a little child. He remembers a big stuffed monkey with a red ribbon wrapped around its neck. A present. A present that is still sitting on the bed in his room at Coulson’s.

He also remembers his mother watching Radcliffe with her arms crossed. She hasn’t been smiling.

Radcliffe is watching him, looking like he hopes for something.

_Maybe you’re his offspring …_

“I want to be alone,” Fitz says, turning around to face the wall. A storm rages inside his mind. “Please.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Radcliffe quietly says, “Sure.” The chair creaks when he gets up and Fitz listens to the heavy steps. When he’s at the door, Radcliffe stops for one last time. “I’m sorry,” he says. Then he’s gone, closing the door behind him quietly.

Fitz closes his eyes. His head hurts. The pain is a white-hot pulsing right behind his eyes. This is all way too much. He just wants to disappear into the void. When a nurse comes later, bringing him food, he touches none of it. The smell makes him nauseous. She collects it later, frowning but not commenting it. “Your girlfriend asked for you. She would like to talk to you,” she tells Fitz instead with a bright smile that seems to scream ‘Isn’t that wonderful?!’

Jemma … The sharp pain of intense longing shoots through Fitz’s chest. He would love to see that she’s alright. And safe. But … he can’t do that to her. She has been hurt because of him. Has been afraid because of him. And now … Now he’s useless again. It’s better to keep all this from her. She doesn’t deserve all the worries.

“I don’t want to see anybody,” he tells the nurse without looking at her, staring up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t listen to what she’s answering. He closes his eyes and shuts the world out. 

* * *

“Fitz. You have to eat something,” Coulson says softly, interrupting Fitz’s restless thoughts. He stops stirring in his soup like he has been for the last fifteen minutes and looks up, right into Coulson and Robin’s worried eyes.

Fitz swallows and looks down at his trembling hand. He’s getting worse. He can feel it. Every day, it’s getting more difficult for him to get out of bed. Or into the shower. Or down the stairs. It’s like his energy is drained from him, slowly but steadily. 

“I’m … I think I caught a cold. I’m just not hungry,” he murmurs and puts the spoon away. “I’ll go to bed.” He pushes his chair back and gets up slowly, grimacing at the burning pain in his chest. His ribs are still tender. As if he would need another reminder …

Coulson watches after him, frowning.  
  


In his room, Fitz pulls all the curtains closed. The light is making his head ache. He throws himself on the bed, pressing his face into the pillows. The stuffed monkey is watching him from its black eyes. He shoves it off the bed.

Fitz is glad to be out of the hospital. Glad that the doctor allowed him to go home with Coulson, as long as he promised he would rest. At least it’s calm here and no one is prodding at him.

A few minutes later, there’s a light knock on the door.

Coulson comes in, carrying a tray with a glass of water and some toast on it. He puts it on the nightstand and Fitz involuntarily grimaces as he smells the food. He turns his head away. Coulson pulls the chair from the desk to the bed and sits, “I thought you might be able to keep at least some toast down,” he says. “Since you haven’t had any breakfast. Or lunch.”

Fitz shrugs.

Coulson is silent for a few moments. Outside, a dog barks and someone whistles. A breeze makes the leave rustle.

“Did you talk to Jemma?” Coulson eventually asks.

Jemma … Like always when he merely hears her name and thinks about her, it’s agony. His emotions have been acting up the last days and now he can barely suppress the tears trying to escape. “No,” he murmurs.

“Fitz … She talked to _me_. She’d really like to see you, you know?”

I’d like to see her too. Oh, how I’d love to hear her voice and see her face. To hug her … Fitz thinks desperately. But … He shouldn’t be selfish. “I don’t want to cause her more hurt,” he says quietly, still not meeting Coulson’s gaze. “I want her to be happy. She can’t be happy with me.”

“Don’t you think, this_ is_ hurting her? You, just cutting her off?” Coulson asks, reaching out and touching Fitz’s shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to do this alone, son. You really don’t have to.”

Fitz turns to look at Coulson, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I … Every time I close my eyes, I see him hurting Jemma, I hear his words, I … It’s just too much. I don’t know what to do. Or what to feel. Or what to think!”

Coulson nods, his face serious. “Did you consider talking to your therapist?”

Fitz did. But he’s scared of that too. It would mean facing it all on another level. It would mean going back to where he was at his worst. On the other hand … Dr. Addington has helped him so much in his recovery, giving him back some desperately needed belief in himself. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. _I don’t know what to do …_

“Fitz … I think you should. I worry about you. You haven’t been eating. And I know you have troubles sleeping. Talking to someone might help. I can drive you. You don’t have to go alone.”

Fitz nods slowly. Out of a sudden urge, he hugs Coulson, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face against his chest. He clings to him like to an anchor. Coulson strokes his back, his words calm and soothing. “It’s going to be alright. I know it doesn’t seem like it, right now. After such horrible things happening. Everything is dark and that darkness seems to last forever. But there will be light again. I promise. There will be light.”

_Now_

“Do you need anything else? Something to eat maybe?” Mack asks, when Fitz is finally settled in a bed in a room that isn’t his old one, but looks and feels close enough.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to keep it down,” Fitz murmurs. He feels incredibly tired. His eyes are heavy and he can barely keep them open.

“Alright,” Mack says softly, padding his shoulder lightly. “Try to rest. You need it. And go easy on yourself, Fitz. You’re not to blame for Alistair’s actions. No one thinks that. I’m sure.”

He leaves then.

Outside, it’s already dark and a bit stormy. The trees in front of the window are swaying back and forth.

Fitz stares up at the ceiling, everyone’s words echoing in his head. He wishes he could believe them himself … Maybe he finds the strength to try, when he’s better.

His thoughts wander off to Jemma. He wonders what she’s doing right now. He misses her so much …

Despite being dead tired, Fitz reaches for his phone on the nightstand and looks at the display. Jemma tried to call him again. She also wrote him messages. After a moment’s hesitation, Fitz unlocks the phone and opens the app to read them.

_Fitz. I know you’re very confused and hurt right now. I just want you to know, that I love you. And we’re in this together. What he said, is not true. It’s not true, Fitz. And you know it. He has no power over you. You are you, with your own thoughts and your wonderful self, you are the man I love and nothing will change that. I understand when you need some distance, but I really miss you. None of this is your fault. Love you, Jemma. _

By the time he’s finished reading, tears are running over Fitz’s face. Jemma … What did he do to deserve her in his life?

He has no power over you …

She’s right. They are all right. And deep down, he knows it. A sudden but strong rush of defiance mixes into his pain. This is not going to destroy everything good in his life. Because there are a lot of good things. There are.

Fitz wipes his burning eyes and forces himself to stay awake just a moment longer. He writes: _Jemma. I’m sorry I didn’t answer or called you. I’m back at the hospital, because I didn’t know how to deal with everything. I love you too. Can we talk? Please? Fitz._


	8. Jemma / Fitz

[Jemma]

It’s raining cats and dogs. Jemma is sitting at her favourite place in the bookstore. A red armchair right beside the huge window which shows her people hurrying past, their heads lowered, and their shoulders pulled up, as the wind showers them with heavy raindrops.

Time passes. The world is uncaring as always. It goes on. Life goes on. Everything’s the same and yet it isn’t. Not for her and Fitz. 

Jemma has been trying to concentrate on a textbook for two hours now, but it’s no use. Her restless thoughts always wander off. To Fitz. Fitz, who worked so hard on processing his past only to have it outrun him. Fitz, who is alone right now and won’t let her in. Jemma misses him. From time to time, she turns to say something to him, only to remember he isn’t there. She still can’t believe how their vacation ended. Inside her, anger and sadness are fighting for dominance.

Jemma dreamed of what happened often enough. Alistair is a monster in her mind now too. Just like he has been one in Fitz’s for so many years. She feels like she’s going to need therapy sessions after this. Even her old injury is acting up. Her leg aches and prickles. But despite the sadness and heartbreak, and the overwhelming feeling of how unfair everything is, Jemma can’t help feeling frustrated from time to time. Frustrated and desperate. Shouldn’t Fitz know by now, that she would never leave his side? Why isn’t he at her side now? She’s hurting too.

It’s tough. Jemma wants to accept Fitz’s choices. She wants to understand, why he’s distancing himself. At the same time, she wants to go to him, shake him, hug him, tell him this isn’t going to change anything between them. But would he believe her?

Jemma sighs heavily, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Jackson, the bookstore cat, jumps into her lap and lays down, curling into a fuzzy ball. He starts to purr, and Jemma smiles weakly, putting a hand on his form gently. Maybe the cat senses her distress. She bites her lip and asks herself what she’s supposed to do now. She’s never been good in just waiting. It drives her crazy. 

She has to _do_ something.

In the end, Jemma decides to pay Phil Coulson a visit. No matter if Fitz is there or not. No matter if he wants to talk to her or not. It’s something.

* * *

“Jemma,” Coulson says when he opens the door. He doesn’t seem to be very surprised. There’s a little girl hiding behind him, clinging to his leg with one hand. She glimpses at Jemma with wide eyes and Jemma smiles down at her. “Hi.”

“This is Robin. Robin, say Hi to Jemma. She’s a friend,” Coulson tells the girl, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“Hi,” Robin whispers and presses her face against Coulson’s leg immediately after.

“Hi, Robin. I, uhm, I really didn’t want to disturb you. But … Is Fitz here?” Jemma asks, feeling nervous and hopeful at the same time.

Coulson shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. He wasn’t well and went back to the hospital, to talk to his therapist.”

“Oh.” Jemma swallows her disappointment down. It makes sense Fitz did this. Actually, she thinks it’s a good idea. It’s better than doing nothing. It means Fitz took action just like she did now. Still. The pain of missing him gets stronger.

Coulson’s warm attentive eyes study her face for a moment. Finally, he opens the door wider. “Come in.”

* * *

Coulson makes her a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon on the top. It’s delicious and warms her from the inside. Robin is sitting beside her silently, drawing a picture. She’s a silent and comforting presence. Coulson sits down opposite her, warming his hands on a cup of Earl Grey. “How are you?”

Jemma shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel sad, and sometimes I’m just angry.”

Coulson nods. “Life has the worst timing. I’m sorry this happened to you. You deserved this vacation. But I’m sure, you will get through this. Fitz is stronger than before. He developed some good strategies to deal with the trauma. He didn’t have them the last time.”

Jemma smiles at him. It feels nice to be able to talk to someone who is involved and can spread some hopeful thoughts. Not only condolences. “I hope you’re right. I … I want to give Fitz space to deal with this. But … I also miss him. I miss him so much. And I wish we could help each other through this, instead of dealing with everything on our own. I’m having nightmares. My leg hurts. I know Fitz is hurting but I’m not exactly well myself. It would just be great to be able to reach out to him somehow,” she says quietly, tapping her fingers against the warm mug restlessly.

Coulson hums. “I’m sure Fitz wants to reach out to you just as much,” he says softly. “Did you try write him a message? Sometimes, he can deal better with written than with spoken words.”

“You think I should try?” Jemma asks, feeling a soft spark of hope.

Coulson nods. “I can’t promise you he’s going to answer. But I think it’s worth a try.”

Jemma smiles at him. “Thank you.”

* * *

Jemma has a lot of messages from her mother when she arrives home. Worried, frantic messages. Jemma ignores them for now. She talked to her parents about what happened. She might have made it less horrible than it was. Just to not worry them too much. Of course, they still were outraged, asking for both her and Fitz, asking to help. But they can’t do that much, Jemma knows.

When she’s in bed, she takes her phone and looks at Fitz’s contact for a long while. Her stomach twists when she thinks about what she’s going to do if he doesn’t write back at all.

She writes a few words, then deletes them again. The process goes on for a while, until, there’s finally a coherent text, that seems to express what she’s thinking and feeling.

_Fitz. I know you’re very confused and hurt right now. I just want you to know, that I love you. And we’re in this together. What he said, is not true. It’s not true, Fitz. And you know it. He has no power over you. You are you, with your own thoughts and your wonderful self, you are the man I love, and nothing will change that. I understand when you need some distance, but I really miss you. None of this is your fault. Love you, Jemma. _

Jemma sighs, nods and lays back. Her heart is pounding and she’s not sure, if she’s going to get any sleep soon. She doesn’t really expect Fitz to answer – not this evening - but suddenly, her phone vibrates, and Jemma holds her breath for a second. She reaches for her phone anxiously – and reads.

_Jemma. I’m sorry I didn’t answer or called you. I’m back at the hospital, because I didn’t know how to deal with everything. I love you too. Can we talk? Please? Fitz._

Jemma gasps and smiles. Her heart fills with warmth. He answered _and_ wants to talk. That’s way more than she’d expected. _Of course_, she types. _Tomorrow? Under the cherry tree? _

_Yes_, Fitz writes back only a moment later. And: _Goodnight. _

Jemma’s heart glows. _Goodnight, Fitz. I love you. _

He replies almost immediately. _I love you too._

Jemma sighs. She feels better now that she knows she’s going to see him. She’s going to be able to talk to him, to ask him to let her back in, so they can deal with this together. Not alone. They’re going to be fine somehow. Somehow, sometime. She presses her face into the pillow and closes her eyes.

* * *

The sight of the cherry tree is reminding Jemma once more that winter is closer again. There are still a few yellow leaves, clinging to their branches courageously. But all too soon, they will float to the ground too. The hospital park isn’t crowded. Very few people made effort to go out into the chilly air.

Jemma doesn’t have to wait very long. Fitz walks up the narrow path to the bench, his head lowered, and his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his jacket. He looks tired. Exhausted. It’s like a flashback to the past, when she saw him for the first time. It hurts. But she’s also so glad to see him, her heart seems to jump a loop. And she remembers, how far they have come since they met. All the progress … It happened. It didn’t just disappear. Jemma starts to feel hope again. They can do this.

Fitz stops in front of her, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Fitz,” Jemma says softly.

He looks up, his eyes wandering over her face quickly before focusing on his shoes. “Jemma …” His voice is barely audible, and it cracks before he finishes her name. She notices he’s shivering despite the jacket.

“Why don’t we go inside and get a cup of tea?” Jemma suggests.

“Okay,” Fitz murmurs. He’s still looking down at his shoes. But when Jemma reaches out slowly, to lock arms with him, he lets her do it without flinching back. They slowly go to the entrance together.

* * *

The tea soothes her with its warmth. They also got cake. It made Jemma feel both surprised and relieved when Fitz was the one suggesting getting a piece of the homemade lemon cake. She still remembers all too well, how in the past, he couldn’t even keep half a sandwich down.

Fitz is clutching his mug in both hands. He’s biting his lip so hard; it’s cracked at some places.

“How are you?” Jemma asks.

Fitz sighs. “I … It’s hard to tell. But … I’ve been in a dark place in my thoughts lately …” He touches the place on his wrist, where she knows his scar is and her stomach aches. He’s been hesitant to show her and usually hides it pretty well, wearing long sleeves even when it’s warm.

Fitz clears his throat. “It’s better now, but … I feel horrible. You were hurt. I never wanted that to happen. And now I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back to … to everything. To everyday life. To what we had before.” He looks at her open and she sees the desperation in his eyes.

Jemma reaches out to cover his hand with hers. He looks at it. “Fitz, I know you’re struggling with believing it … but this changed nothing. It didn’t change how I feel about you. It wasn’t your fault this happened. It was Alistair who searched and found you, who hurt us. You couldn’t have known. No one could. I love you.” She swallows. The next words, she knows, could make Fitz recoil. But she says them anyway, because … no holding back. She promised. “I have to be honest. I’m having nightmares about what happened. I’m not feeling well. I wished we were together. I need you.”

“Jemma …” Fitz takes a deep breath, his eyes feeling with guilt. But he doesn’t back away, which seems to be a good sign. “I want to believe it. All of it. I’m trying. I just … I need a bit more time. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you struggled. I will be there. Soon.”

Jemma smiles at him. “I know.” She trails his skin with her fingers, rubbing the smooth skin between his thumb and forefinger. Fitz looks at their hands, frowning deeply. “There’s more,” he says quietly. “More … things. Radcliffe told me … He told me that he loved my mother. They had an affair.”

Jemma inhales sharply. “I did suspect something like this,” she admits, biting her lip. “The way he was talking about her … Are you going to ask him to do paternity test?”

Fitz shrugs. His frown deepens. “I thought about it … But what would it change? Nothing. Not now. In the past … If he’s … In case he’s my actual biological father, that would mean, I wouldn’t have had to live with Alistair at all. I don’t know, if I can deal with such information. On top of everything else.”

Jemma nods. “Okay. It’s your decision, Fitz.”

They spend some moments together in silence. Fitz eventually yawns and Jemma can see the exhaustion spreading in his body and mind.

There’s a question lingering between them. They both feel it. And Jemma is the one talking the words out loud. “Are you going to come home?” She asks softly.

Fitz looks down at his hands and exhales shakily. She knows the answer before he mutters the words out loud. “I think … I can’t. Sorry. I … I need a bit more time. Talking to my therapist. Thinking and … “ He stops. They both know what he isn’t saying. _I don’t want to burden you with me._

Jemma swallows the disappointment and slight sadness down and takes one of his hands into hers. “It’s alright, Fitz. I think I’ll ask for help too. Therapy sessions. Talking to someone might help me too.”

Fitz lowers his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help much.”

“No. You’re doing great. Can you hug me?”

Fitz looks back up at her slightly surprised. “Sure.”

He shifts until she can lean against him and wraps an arm around her. Jemma presses her face against his jumper. She inhales his familiar scent and closes her eyes. He smells like home.

[Fitz]

It’s pitch-dark around him. And silent. He can hear his own frantic breaths echoing in the void around him. He knows exactly, where he is. He knows there’s no way to get out this place. The door is locked. He can only sit there, trying to make himself as small as possible, waiting …

“You mean nothing to them.”

Fitz freezes at the cold voice. It seems to come from everywhere. The words cut into him like a knife. “That’s not true,” he whispers, wrapping both arms around his body and rocking back and forth. God. It hurts so much … The fear and pain seem to be tearing him apart.

“It’s true. You know it. They’re just pitying you,” the voice in the dark says. “You’re pathetic. Weak. Broken.”

“Stop,” Fitz groans, pressing both hands on his ears. “Stop, stop, stop …”

“Fitz?”

A voice calling his name, sounding different from the one in the dark. And he knows the voice, but he can’t leave this place. He never could leave it. The door is locked. He knows it. It’s locked …

“Fitz!” There it is again. Someone calls for him. It’s not the shadow. It’s … He doesn’t know. He only knows that he wants them to find the someone. Wants to be saved, pulled back into the light. Fitz wants to scream for help, but his lips seem to be sealed together. He can’t open his mouth.

“Fitz!”

Fitz whimpers. _I’m here. Down here. Please … Please help me …_

“Fitz!”

Fitz awakes with a gasp, when his shoulder is shaken slightly. He blinks into way too bright light, coming from the lamp on the nightstand. Mack’s worried face hovers over him. It’s still blurred, but he knows it’s Mack.

“Mack … What …”

“It was just a nightmare. You’re safe,” Mack tells him, one of his warm hands laying on Fitz’s shoulder.

“A … a nightmare,” Fitz repeats. Of course. His stomach drops in the all-too familiar fear of having embarrassed himself, but the bedsheets and his pyjamas are dry and he sighs in relief. He wonders why Mack’s eyes are filled with worry. _Did I scream?_ _Or trash? _

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mack asks.

There was a time when Fitz would straight out have said no. But by now, he knows it’s easier to deal with everything, when he shares it. There’s still a rest of shame and guilt left, telling him he shouldn’t burden someone else with his issues, but Mack is his friend and told him often enough it’s alright to tell him about it. “This dream … I’ve been having it for years. I’m locked in, in the basement. And I’m alone. It’s dark, I can’t see. I know I can’t escape, because … because he always locks the door.” Fitz shudders. He can feel the memories stir. The memories of being in the cellar for hours as a child, because of a broken glass. Or a phone call of his teachers. Or anything else that gave Alistair a reason to freak out. “I can hear his voice. He tells me … horrible things. Like that everyone around me is just pitying me. That no one really cares about me.”

“That’s not true,” Mack says quietly, emotions dancing in his warm brown eyes. “You know that, right?”

Fitz nods. Sometimes, he doubts. But most of the times, he knows that his nightmares are only reflecting his own worst fears. He sighs and grimaces at how dry his throat feels. Before he can even look out for some water, Mack hands him a plastic bottle. “Thanks,” Fitz murmurs and takes huge sips, almost emptying the bottle. When he yawns, Mack throws a glance at his watch. “It’s almost six in the morning. Means, you have still a few hours left. Do you think you can go back to sleep?”

“Yeah. I’m tired,” Fitz murmurs and lays back against the pillows. It’s been rare that he can sleep after a nightmare. But today, after letting some of the tension go, he thinks he can do it. When he closes his eyes, he can hear Mack getting up. The nurse puts the bottle on the nightstand. “Thank you, Mack,” Fitz mumbles. “For listening.”

“Of course, Turbo,” Mack says, and Fitz can hear his gentle smile. He falls back asleep soon, not disturbed by any more nightmares for the rest of the night and early morning.

When he is in the bathroom later, showering thoroughly to get rid of the cold sweat, Fitz realizes, things have changed since his last stay on the ward. A lot.

The last days the depression had pulling at him with familiar cold clutches. The world appeared in grey scales again. But with every passing day, something else had mingled with the bitter dull sadness inside of him. Something, that made him feel restless and agitated. It takes a while until he can pinpoint the sensation. It’s rage. It surprises him. And he doesn’t really know how to deal with it. It’s so different from the desperate tired resignation he has felt the last time he was here.

At his next therapy session, he’s restlessly shifting on the couch, his fingers fidgeting with everything they can reach. Dr. Addington notices. Of course. She always notices. “What are you thinking?” She asks.

“I think I’m angry. Have been for a while now,” Fitz mumbles, his eyes fixed on the aquarium, where some of the smaller fish are hunting each other through the little but amazingly detailed little shipwreck on the ground. 

“Why?” Dr. Addington asks on.

Fitz resists the urge to groan. _Why _… She always asks _why_. A why forces him to form what’s happening inside him into words. He’s never been good at that. He’s angry at himself for not being able to control himself better. He has been running away. From what happened, from Jemma. But most of all he’s angry at Alistair. Alistair, who dared to enter his life again after everything he did, who honestly thought Fitz had any interest in talking to him. He notices that he has clenched his hands into tight fists. 

“Everything’s still a mess,” he murmurs. “I hate it. I thought, everything would get to somewhere … normal. Well. Normal for me. I … In the past, I often wished I could have a normal life. Like my classmates. When they went home, a warm meal was waiting for them. They did their homework with their parent’s help. They went on weekend trips with their families. They didn’t have to steal food from the fridge, didn’t have to fear someone would lock them in a basement when they were caught …” Fitz bites his lip, surprised at the sudden wave of rage rushing through him. “I hate the childhood I had. I hate that it follows me everywhere. I hate that … that I can’t shake it off.”

Dr. Addington nods. “Alistair brought it all back to you. All the things you wanted to forget. To leave behind you. Now, you have to decide how to deal with it,” she says. 

Fitz sighs and looks down at his shoes. “I don’t want _him_ to have any more control over my life. Not anymore,” he murmurs and grits his teeth. The rage shakes him. “I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve what he did to me.”

“No. You didn’t. Remember, you had a hard time to tell yourself that. Now you’re accepting it. And that’s why you’re angry. But you’re piling it up inside of you. You have to let it go,” Dr. Addington says softly.

Fitz shakes his head. “I don’t know _how_.”

Dr. Addington suddenly gets up, putting her notepad on the table. “Come with me.”

Surprised, Fitz gets up as well and follows the therapist out of the office. She leads him to the small gym that’s on the ward. Leads him right to the black punching bag hanging in the middle of it. “I want you to work with this,” she tells Fitz. “Let your rage out on it.”

Fitz chews on his lip and shakes his head, eyeing the punching back warily. “I don’t know, I …” Violence wasn’t the kind of coping strategy he’d been expecting.

Dr. Addington hands him a pair of red boxing gloves, smiling encouragingly. “Just try it. For some people, it’s really liberating. To focus the bad energy, to let it out. I do it myself every now and then. Martial arts is an ideal stress relief.”

Fitz still hesitates. But he puts the gloves on, nevertheless. They fit well and it kind of feels good to have them on. Like he’s ready to fight. He tentatively hits the punching ball with one loose fist. It barely moves. Dr. Addington doesn’t comment on his technique. She just stands nearby, watching him.

Fitz does it again, harder this time. The punching bag swings and he feels a strange kind of satisfaction. “That’s it,” Dr. Addington says. “Use both hands. Hit it. Imagine you’re hitting it with everything that’s making you feel angry.”

Fitz obeys. He hits the bag with both fists, imagining Alistair and what he did in that barn. What he said. His rage is white and hot. He sees Jemma stumbling back, pain written on her face. He glows from the inside out with his fury.

It starts to feel good to punch something while thinking about the unfairness of everything. While thinking about how he won’t let this destroy his life and his future with Jemma – because he has one with her. She told him so. She always tells the truth. He can trust her. – again. Not again.

Fitz punches the bag until he has no strength left. Until he’s out of breath and has to stop. He leans his forehead against the cool leather, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his back.

Dr. Addington hands him a towel and he takes it gratefully. “Better?” The therapist asks.

Fitz wipes his face. He can hear his heart pounding, fast as in a panic attack, but he feels strangely … rooted, instead of agitated. “Yes. Thank you,” he breathes.

She smiles at him. “Good. Now do something calm, alright? Take a nap. Or take a walk outside.”

“Or painting,” Fitz adds quietly. He hasn’t been painting for quite a while.

Dr. Addington nods. “Yes. Or painting. I’m very pleased with your coping skills, Fitz. You’re getting so much better at it. See you tomorrow?”

He nods, feeling a combination of careful proudness and still nagging doubt at her words.

A little while later, Fitz sits on his favourite spot in the art room, in front of a blank canvas.

He thinks about what he’s supposed to draw. Everything his mind comes up with is dark. Colourless. He doesn’t like it. So he turns his thoughts away from the blank page and instead thinks of Jemma. She told him she would like to go to the beach one day. With him. Fitz isn’t so sure about this. When he thinks of the amount of water there he gets anxious. But when he thinks about how the sand would feel under his feet – warm, smooth – and how the waves would sound when they hit the shore, he feels better about it. He starts to draw a beach. Not one that necessarily exists. He draws it from Jemma’s description.

God. He misses her. He hopes they will be together soon again.

* * *

The next day, Fitz receives another visitor. One, he didn’t expect at all. One, he first doesn’t want to see. But he thinks twice. And decides.

Radcliffe comes into his room slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

Fitz watches him from where he’s sitting on the little table at his room, eating breakfast.

Radcliffe takes a deep breath. “Hello, Fitz. I’m … sorry. You can’t imagine how sorry I …”

“My mother,” Fitz interrupts him. “Tell me more. About your … relationship.”

Radcliffe looks surprised. But after a moment, he does talk about her. “I really miss her. I still have a photo in my …” Radcliffe grabs his purse and searches around in it, shoving cards and money aside until he pulls a little crumpled photo out, showing it to Fitz. Fitz inhales sharply. There’s his mother. She’s younger. Her curls longer. There are less lines around her eyes and she’s looking directly into the camera, her smile honest. Fitz swallows around the heavy lump in his throat.

“Do you want to have it?” Radcliffe asks carefully.

Fitz hesitates. But then, he nods, taking the photo from Radcliffe, who sighs heavily.

Fitz studies her face and feels his heart pounding. After she died, he only heard bad things about her. According to Alistair, she was too soft, too comforting, too emotional, too patient, too lazy, too everything. Alistair never once said he missed her. Neither did he look at old photos to remember her and their time together. Fitz felt a hint of pain as he once again realized, how different everything could have turned out. He’s close to sending Radcliffe away, because he can’t deal with it. 

“You really loved her,” he states, without looking away from the picture.

Radcliffe nods. “I did. And I knew she wouldn’t be happy with the life she got.”

“Why did you leave then? Why didn’t you convince her to leave A … him. Why didn’t you tell her to go with you?”

A lot of questions. Radcliffe clears his throat. “Because … I just guess I wasn’t brave enough,” he says quietly.

“Please leave now,” Fitz says. It really is too much. But after a moment, he adds, “Sorry. I know it’s not polite to … to be so direct …”

“No. It’s alright. Don’t worry. This is a lot. For me too.” Radcliffe gets up with a heavy sigh. He takes one last look at Fitz. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given up so fast. If you want to talk again sometime, please don’t hesitate to call me.” He leaves a note on the nightstand, then he leaves the room on heavy steps.

Fitz looks after him, a storm of emotions raging inside of him. He takes another look at his mother’s face and feels tears prickling in his eyes.

He misses her so much.

* * *

“Thank you, Jemma. For … for doing this. With me.”

“Of course, Fitz. Of course.”

They are standing on the graveyard, in front of his mother’s grave. Fitz asked Jemma if she wanted to come with him only hours after Radcliffe left. Jemma said yes immediately. When he asked his therapist if he was allowed to leave the ward, she said yes and told him he could go home if he wanted to, trying how he was feeling out there. Fitz isn’t sure yet, where his path will lead him to after this certain visit.

Right now, him and Jemma are looking at the dark marble stone in front of them, their arms locked. They brought two flower bouquets, which are now leaning against the stone. White and yellow roses.

Fitz remembers. He stood here before. Long ago, beside his father. Radcliffe was there too. Now that Fitz saw him again, he remembers him being there now and then. A vague face. After that, he was here only two other times. Once, with Coulson and another time, alone.

“It’s a nice place,” Jemma says quietly, looking up at the softly whispering oak tree above them. 

Fitz nods. He runs a finger over the smooth marble stone. Over the slightly elevated letters. “Martha Anne Fitz. Beloved Wife and Mother.” _Beloved wife_ … Fitz feels his throat tightening. It’s just another lie. A construct of the past, nothing more than meaningless words. _I love you. Of course, I love you. But_ … There always was a _but_. _But why aren’t you able to cook dinner faster? But why are you talking back when you should shut your mouth? But why are you coddling our son, making him into a whimpering weakling? But, but, but … _

Would there have been such buts with Radcliffe?

Well. Now everything happened and there’s no going back. If there’s one thing, Fitz learned in therapy, it’s to leave the past in the past.

Life goes on. It will have its up- and downsides. Just like always. But it will go on and he will try to make the best of it. He won’t let his past and his trauma define him. He won’t let it hold him back. Never again.

His decision is set.

Fitz looks from the marble stone to Jemma and smiles. “Let’s go home.”


	9. Fitz

Outside wounds heal fast. Way faster than inside wounds which scar over, leaving unforgettable marks. Eternal reminders.

When Fitz has learned one thing in the last years of pain, recovery and getting hurt again, it’s that things are never going to be perfect. And they don’t need to be. He doesn’t have to try to give his best every day, 24 hours. He just has to give what he can. Sometimes, what he can give is not all that much. Sometimes, it’s not more than getting out of bed for a quick shower or a short breakfast. But he learned to accept that this can be enough too and he doesn’t have to be angry at himself.

Actually, Fitz is amazed about how fast things went back to halfway normal this time.

He’s glad to be back at his and Jemma’s flat. He’s glad to share the bed with her, to wake up to her breathing evenly beside him, to her familiar scent and warm presence. He’s happy when she rolls around to face him with a sleepy smile, when she reaches for him and they cuddle under the blanket.

They both go to their therapy sessions. It takes a lot of things off their shoulders and their relationship.

When the holidays are over, Fitz goes back to studying. It’s still not easy for him to sit in a lecture hall, together with a ton of other students. It’s still difficult for him to focus. But he’s better at dealing with this now. When things get too much and he feels like he can’t breathe, he leaves the room for a short moment, to walk around and catch some fresh air. This almost always helps. In the past, he would have felt very uncomfortable, leaving a room with so many people, all looking at him, feeling their glances in his back – but now, he knows everything that helps is allowed. Necessary. He even manages to tell his lecturers about his issues. They all react in an understanding way, telling him it would be okay, to write the tests in an extra room.

When Fitz tells Dr. Addington about these things, she smiles and nods at him. “You’re doing very well. You should be proud of you,” the therapist tells him.

Fitz finally starts to believe it too. When he looks at himself in the mirror in the morning, he smiles tentatively, telling himself he can do this. And he doesn’t see his days only as battles to be fought anymore. When he strolls through the city with Jemma, getting their favourite ice cream or visiting a new little bookstore, he’s not thinking about the past, the trauma or his issues. He can let go. And if he doesn’t manage to, he has someone to talk to.

It’s the same for Jemma. There are enough nights she wakes up from a nightmare and Fitz reaches for her in the dark, holding her in his arms until she calms down. There are enough moments when she grimaces and turns away, and he knows her leg is bothering her, but she doesn’t want to show it too much or worry him. But he tells her then, that she can tell him. That she doesn’t have to pile everything up inside her. That she can – has to – let go too. And most of the times, she does.

Things are working out quite well and Fitz has the feeling he has his anxiety and self-insecurities mostly under control. But there’s still something ahead of them, that could challenge everything again.

They knew it would come and it was in their heads all the time, but only as distant threat they tried to hold off for now, to be able to focus on other things. It becomes solid and real, when the detective working on Fitz’s case writes them a letter and tells Fitz he’s expected to testify against Alistair in the courtyard. Along with Jemma. And Radcliffe.

Fitz’s stomach drops when he reads the lines. For a long time, he isn’t sure if he can do it.

He still remembers when he had to be in the court as a child. It was terrifying.

Jemma doesn’t look thrilled either. “We have to,” she says, chewing on her lip. “We have to, so that he can get the punishment he deserves.”

“Yeah,” Fitz says hoarsely. “Again …” He shudders involuntarily. This is going to bring everything back. He can already feel it. The layers of pain and fear inside him, stirring and threatening to come up to the surface of his mind.

Jemma lays a hand on his arm. “Oh Fitz. I’m sure this is the last time you have to see him. He attacked us. They won’t let him get away with this and let him stalk you again. I’m sure.”

“I hope so,” Fitz says, closing his eyes and focusing on Jemma’s fingers, softly stroking his skin. “I want this to be over.” He wishes it would be like the chapter of a book you could finish.

“Me too,” Jemma mumbles and hugs him.

* * *

When it’s over, Fitz remembers everything in bits and pieces. They flash in front of his eyes now and then.

  
_“Ready?” Coulson asks, adjusting Fitz’s dark blue tie with gentle fingers. _

_Fitz shakes his head and fumbles with the buttons of his suit coat nervously. He’s sweating. He can feel it dripping down his back, unpleasantly cold. “No. I will never be ready for this,” he murmurs, swallowing heavily. _

_Coulson lays his hands on Fitz’s shoulders, looking at him intently. “You can do this. You know it needs to be done. He can’t get away with this. He needs to face the punishment he deserves. Remember, he can’t do anything to you. Not anymore. And any insults would have consequences here. You are not alone with him. No one is going to stand by, letting him hurt you. And I’m there. Jemma’s there. Just look at us, when you feel you can’t do it, alright?”_

_Fitz nods, his throat feeling tight. It seems like there’s a big lump stuck in it, making it difficult to breathe. Or talk. _

_He excuses himself, heading for the bathroom. His legs feel weak under him. It reminds him of when he started to walk after his injury. _

_In the bathroom, Fitz splashes cold water into his face and supports himself on the sink for a moment, staring into the mirror. He takes a few deep breaths, listening to his pounding heart. This is going to pass, he tells himself. It’s just another battle and it has to be won. But then it’s over. And I will never have to look at him again. _

_Fitz nods at himself, like he did it the last few weeks, and exits the bathroom. _

* * *

The first few days after the trial, Fitz and Jemma spend mostly in bed, cuddling. They take their time to relax. Their touches and kisses are tentative at first. Soft and gentle. They are like questions. Questions to which the answers can’t be given yet.

In the safety of their room, when they’re warm and the wind and rain outside is only a background noise making everything they have and share even cosier, it’s mostly Jemma who starts to draw pictures of the future. She starts with something she has always liked to do. Then they talk about it. Sometimes for hours.

“I really want to adopt a lot of animals. The best thing would be a farm, where we can give animals no one wanted or which were abused a home for the rest of their lives,” she says thoughtfully, her head on Fitz’s chest, her dreamy eyes focused on the window, which shows the steady fall of raindrops.

Fitz hums. “I would love that. If we also adopt some monkeys.”

Jemma chuckles. “Oh Fitz.”

Fitz scrunches his nose. “No really. Sure, monkeys are no pets, but, you know, sometimes monkeys are smuggled into the country and they are confiscated. I would give them a proper home, where they can climb and form social groups like they are supposed to.”

“Alright. We’ll also adopt monkeys,” Jemma says fondly, kissing Fitz’s cheek.

They also discuss going on vacation. Somewhere, where no one knows them. Somewhere, where they don’t have to expect unpleasant surprises and the past catching up with them.

They dream of white beaches and turquoise water. Of lonely mountains, with tops covered in snow and lively valleys, holding huge groups of deer. Of an island, with almost no people, but with lots of wild animals (like monkeys).

On other days, they infodump each other and listen.

They take it slow. Everything else was happening way too fast.

* * *

_The moment Fitz sees Alistair, he feels numb. Empty. There’s a void inside of him. He freezes and only sits on his place, when Coulson gives him a gentle push, rubbing his back. Alistair sits in front of the judge at a table, beside a bold man which is probably his lawyer. He stares at Fitz with his cold eyes narrowed and his teeth working. His expression is one of pure rage and hatred. _

_Fitz sits and exhales shakily. Jemma reaches for his hand, taking it in hers and squeezing softly. He’s glad for her silent comfort. Coulson sits at his other side. Radcliffe sits in the row in front of them. He throws Fitz a quick glance before turning his head forward. _

_When the trial starts, Fitz mostly stares at his feet. He barely hears the words of the judge. He knows what happened. That’s enough. He doesn’t have to hear it all over again. He will have to go through enough, when it’s his turn to testify. _

_But he perks up, when Radcliffe’s name is called. The man goes to the stand, smoothing the edges of his black suit. He looks nervous, but when he talks, his voice is firm. Fitz watches him, and feels a strange kind of fondness. It surprises and even irritates him. He looks back down at his feet, listening half-heartedly. _

_“Will you please state your full name to the jury?”_

_“Holden Radcliffe.”_

_“How would you describe your relationship to Alistair Fitz?”_

_Radcliffe hesitates a moment. “There was a time, when I would have called him a friend,” he says. _

_Alistair scoffs. The noise is loud in the hall. Fitz looks up and sees that Alistair is gripping the table in front of him with both hands. So hard, his knuckles turn white. _

_“But we … grew apart.”_

_“After you fucked my wife,” Alistair spits. _

_Fitz flinches. _

_The crowd murmurs. _

_The judge tells Alistair to be silent. He asks Radcliffe some more questions, which Fitz can’t quite follow. Alistair’s crude words echo in his head. _After you fucked my wife. After …_ His mouth feels dry. He wishes he had some water. He wishes his mother was there and he could talk to her. _

_Radcliffe is now talking about what happened on that certain day. “When I entered the barn, I saw Jemma on the ground and Alistair choking Fitz. It didn’t seem like he would stop. Even after I called out his name several times and threatened him with the police, he didn’t stop.”_

_Fitz swallows. The images come back again. Alistair’s wide open raging eyes right in front of him, the feeling of not getting any air, the feeling of helplessness. The fear for Jemma …_

_“When I realized he wouldn’t let go, I took the bottle and smashed it on his head,” Radcliffe continues, with the barest tremble in his voice. “I’m not a violent man. I despise violence. But … I had to do it. He wouldn’t have stopped. Like he didn’t stop beating me in my house not that long before he assaulted Jemma and Fitz.”_

_Alistair scoffs again. But he doesn’t say anything. _

_There’s not a lot more. The judge thanks Radcliffe and there’s some minor talking about evidence. Fitz doesn’t really listen. Until he hears his name being called. _

* * *

“Can I kiss you?” Fitz asks Jemma in a stormy night, when they are snuggling under the blanket. He has his hand on her cheek and is looking into her eyes that are glimmering softly in the moonlight.

“Of course,” Jemma says. They both know by now that Fitz doesn’t need permission. Or invitation. But they sense that tonight, there’s something quivering in the space between them. It’s timid. It’s anxious. But it’s definitely there. And it needs confidence to blossom.

Fitz kisses Jemma on the lips. It’s gentle first, but quickly becomes more passionate. Jemma sighs into his mouth, warm and sweet. Her hands roam over his back, almost searchingly.

When they stop kissing to catch their breath, their noses are so close they are touching. Their gazes lock and Fitz feels like he’s drowning in Jemma’s eyes, in oceans of emotions. Of love. “I love you,” he whispers, feeling overwhelmed in a good way. “I love you.”

Jemma smiles. “I love you too.”

There’s a moment of silence. It feels like they are both waiting for something.

Fitz inhales shakily. “Tell me what you want,” he pleads. He feels way more confident tonight. Almost daring. But he still wants directions. He can do directions.

Jemma takes his hand and places it on her chest, where her heart is beating. Steadily and strong. “Touch me, Fitz,” she whispers.

And he does.

In the end it’s simple, like back then, when they were making out for the first time, in their room in Ashburton. They do more now, but it doesn’t scare him. It’s moving together and memorizing what causes the soft sighs of pleasure Jemma is making. She arches against him when he kisses the most sensitive spot at her neck and whimpers when she feels his cock rubbing right against her centre.

“Fitz,” she says. This time, it sounds urgent.

He smiles against her skin. “Do you want me to use my mouth on you?” He asks.

Jemma makes a noise that sounds both surprised and happy. “Please,” she says breathlessly.

Fitz nods and moves until he lays between Jemma’s legs. She looks at him, her head propped up on the pillow. The look in her eyes is intense. Fitz swallows his nervousness and his fears of failing horribly down and strokes his hands along Jemma’s legs, feeling her quivering. He pulls her panties off and rubs a finger through her folds. She’s slick. Very. Curious, he licks his finger and Jemma’s breath hitches. Fitz grins up at her and settles between her legs more comfortably. When he first licks her clit, carefully, Jemma shudders and whimpers. Assured by her reaction, Fitz repeats the movement, but firmer. He tries around for a while, trying to find out, which makes Jemma moan and arche against him.

When he finds a particular good technique, Jemma reaches down, running her hand through his hair. Fitz hums happily.

“Can you … use a finger?” Jemma gasps, biting her lip.

He can definitely do this. He pushes one finger in and Jemma’s hips jump up. Her hand tightens in his hair. It’s not painful, bot firm enough to feel it and Fitz thinks he likes the sensation. He moans into her pussy and Jemma breathes out a curse. 

When he fucks her with his finger and moves his tongue around her clit, it doesn’t take long until she stutters, “Fitz. Fitz, I think … I’m going to come. I’m coming.”

She makes a high-pitched noise and rolls her hips, her breath frantic. Fitz can feel her tightening around her finger and he continues to move it in awe, until Jemma shoves him away and sags, breathing heavily.

Fitz wipes his chin and looks at her, marvelling at the sight. Her hair is a mess and she’s sweaty, her eyes half lidded and her expression relaxed.

“Okay?” He asks, a hint of uncertainty stirring inside him.

Jemma smiles. “Fantastic,” she says.

Fitz returns her smile. “I’m glad.” He wants to do this to her again. Soon. As soon as possible. He shifts and just now really notices, how hard he is. His cock is aching. Jemma looks at the bulge in his boxers and licks her lips. “Your turn,” she says.

Jemma makes him come undone and afterwards, Fitz sleeps like a stone, feeling boneless and happy. No dreams. No breaks. Only deep sleep.

* * *

_When Fitz is called to testify, his stomach drops and the hairs on his neck stand up. He gets up and feels his legs trembling under him. Coulson puts his hand on his back and gives him a gentle push forward. “You can do it,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “You did it before. You can do it now.”_

_Fitz nods, making the few steps forward without dropping. _

_He remembers the last time he stood in court. Everything was too big around him. He had to stare up at the judge. Up at the lawyer. Up at everyone, who was looking back down at him with barely restrained pity in their eyes. _

_The only anchor point in the room was Coulson. Now, there are two – actually three – anchor points, when he turns around. _

_He inhales deeply and focuses on the judge in front of him. He goes through the questions like it’s a dream. _

_Alistair is glaring at him, his chin raised. Fitz tries to fade him out. Tries to focus on the asks. _

_What did he do when Alistair wanted to talk to him? _

_Fitz swallows. “I told him to leave. I didn’t want to talk to him,” he says quietly. _

_“My own blood!” Alistair barks, almost jumping up from his chair. His patience seems to be gone. He can barely hold himself back, his body tense and his eyes spitting venom. His lawyer looks worried. The judge glares at Alistair. “Again, I remind you. Stay calm and silent, or I will have ordered you out of this room.”_

_Alistair grits his teeth, but falls back into his seat. _

_“You told your father to leave and he didn’t, what happened then?” The judge asks. _

_Fitz shudders at the word father. “Please … This man may be my biological father, but I don’t want to think of him or call him that. My father is Phil Coulson, who is sitting right over there. I’m going to call this man by his name. Alistair. I want to ask you, to do so too.”_

_Alistair huffs. His hands clench around the table in front of him and he looks like he would like to throw it. At Fitz. _

_The judge looks at Fitz considering. “Alright. Now, are you going to answer my question?”_

_Fitz nods. “He attacked us. In the barn. He … He shoved my girlfriend, Jemma. So hard, she fell and hurt her head. When he attacked me, I told him the truth. I told him I hate him for everything he did to me. Which was not my fault. I told him to leave. He didn’t. He … He attacked me. Punched me and pressed me against the wall, choking me, until … until I almost passed out. Then, Mr. Radcliffe came and used a, a bottle to knock Alistair out. He … He probably saved my life.” Fitz looks over to Radcliffe, who sits there straight and tense, his blue eyes wide. He’s pale. He suffers with him, Fitz realizes and feels a sudden surprising wave of fondness rushing through him. _

_The rest of the questioning passes quite quickly. They go through the evidence. The wounds that were photographed in the hospital. The ugly bruises around Fitz’s neck. The doctor’s reports. It’s all very obvious. Jemma talks and basically repeats Fitz’s report. She stands in front of the judge, straight and firm, her chin raised and her voice stern. God. Fitz loves her so much. _

_Alistair is sentenced yet again. It’s a long sentence in prison. He’s also told he will have to stay away from Fitz, Jemma and Radcliffe. _

_When they bring Alistair away, he’s screaming insults. Insults that make the crowd gasp and murmur in shock. _

_But Fitz heard worse before. He watches the man, the monster of his nightmares, being pulled out of the room without flinching. He watches after him and feels strangely calm. It’s not his fault. He did nothing wrong. What happened today, is justice. _

_Coulson lays a hand on his shoulder and tells him he’s proud. _

_Jemma kisses his cheek. _

_Radcliffe looks at him uncertainly, and Fitz makes a decision. _

* * *

It’s getting warmer. The world blooms under the fresh sunbeams finally breaking through the clouds.

On a Sunday, Fitz and Jemma visit Coulson and Robin. They have a garden party.

Fitz sits in his chair, his face raised and his eyes closed as he enjoys the warmth on his skin. Robin is sitting beside him, drawing on her notepad. Jemma is braiding the girl’s hair while humming softly. Coulson is standing in front of the barbeque, turning steaks around.

Someone else comes through the fence gate a while later. It’s Holden Radcliffe with Barney, who wags his tail wildly. Robin squeals in delight and runs to hug the dog, while Jemma runs after her laughing, holding up a hair tie. “I wasn’t done yet, Robin!”

Radcliffe laughs and shakes Coulson’s and Fitz’s hand. He sits down and Coulson hands him a sandwich.

After the trial, Fitz decided to not take a paternal test. Radcliffe can be a part of this family no matter if he’s related to Fitz or not. Family doesn’t end in blood. He deserved to be here, after saving Fitz, after telling Fitz so much about his mother, how he loved her, how they were happy at least for some precious moments.

Jemma and Robin start to play catch with Barney and throw him a stick, which the dog catches in extraordinary speed, his eyes sparkling in delight. Radcliffe joins Coulson at the barbeque and they talk about the perfect technique of steak grilling.

Fitz watches them all with a smile on his face.

He’s home. He’s at peace. He’s happy.

This is a good life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end :)  
Thanks everyone for reading, commenting and leaving kudos <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


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